Awake, Arise
by NiDubhchair
Summary: Will loves Djaq, Djaq loves Will, but Will can't think of a word to say on the subject. But when Will is locked in the Nottingham dungeons and forced to compete in a gladitorial combat after a rescue goes awry, will Djaq ever get the chance to hear how he really feels?
1. A Blue Kirtle

**Awake, Arise . . .**

_Because a.) there aren't enough Will S. fics, and b.) the series writers took the Handsome, Quiet One and made him fall in love with The Healer and never once gave us a plot where she gets to save his life!_

_In the show's anachronistic spirit, the songs & poems mentioned are not necessarily period to the 12__th__ century, though some may be. My deepest apologies, especially, to G.K. Chesterton and other poets from whom I will borrow. The one thing in this fic which is purposefully NOT anachronistic (and definitely NOT in the spirit of the series) is the description of clothing. Because, for God's sake, the 12__th__ century is the 12__th__ century. Men wore tunics & hose & hoods. Not 16__th__ century doublets. Not 21__st__ century hoodies. Not 18__th__ century cravats with 15__th__ century tabards. AND WOMEN DID NOT WEAR CORSETRY - ESPECIALLY NOT AS OUTERWEAR. Please. For the love of God and country, STOP THE BLOODY, DAMNED COSTUMING NONSENSE. (Okay, rant over). Enjoy!_

_[One more note: if any of you have stumbled over here because you're wondering when I'm going to post the next few chapters to my damn Doctor Who fic . . . Well, let's just say I got a little stuck. The following fic is my attempt at getting unstuck. Hope you can half-enjoy anyway, and thanks for your patience!]_

* * *

"_Awake, arise, you drowsy sleeper,_

_Awake, arise, it's almost day,_

_How can you bear these thoughts of sleeping,_

_When your true love's going away?"_

Will Scarlet rolled over on his back and gazed up through the slowly wakening Sherwood as the morning stars disappeared one by one. Through the thick morning mist, he could just make out Djaq, already up and helping Much prepare the breakfast fire. She was cycling through her usual run of English folk songs. Will thought to himself that it was high time he taught her a new one – maybe something a little more staid and appropriate for the early morning. Like "Queen Jane," perhaps . . .

"_Oh go, love, go, and ask your father,_

_If this night you will be my bride,_

_O if he says no, then return and tell me,_

'_Twill be the last time I'll awaken you."_

Will lay there for a while and listened. Djaq's voice was deep and sweet, like water from a well. Occasionally she would add in a snatch or two from an Arabic song – but these seemed to sadden her, and she would soon hum her way back to the more manageable folk-grief of her adopted land. The thought passed through Will's mind that he might be perfectly happy just lying there listening to her sing for years and years. But soon the birds added their morning chorus to Djaq's voice, and the sun's long fingers reached down through the trees and began lifting the surrounding mists like a bridal veil from the earth. True morning was upon them and it was time for all God's good outlaws to be up and making mischief.

"Today shouldn't be too exciting," said Robin, putting down his pottage bowl and reaching for his bow. "3 drop-offs in Edwinstowe, Wellow, and Earking - John & Djaq can handle that. Much, Allan, Will, and I are handling a prisoner extraction in Locksley."

"Prisoner extraction?" said Much as he gathered up empty dishes. "Don't we usually take a few days to plan those?"

"'Tis a bit last-minute, granted. Alice the smith's wife came to us very early this morning – Djaq had to wake me. Seems her son Tad was in his cups last night and was overheard by some of the Sherrif's men cursing King John at the pub. He was put in the stocks at Locksley and is due to have his hand cut off at sundown. Well, we can't have that, said I – so I told her we could get him out and smuggled away to Will's father in Scarborough."

"In broad daylight?" said John, cocking a skeptical eyebrow.

"Well, we've never let it stop us before," said Robin with his oh-so-confident sideways smile. Will grimaced. Robin meant that smile to be inspiring, but it inspired little more in Will nowadays than the remembered sensation of getting punched in the head with a mailed fist one-too-many times. Still, the thought of Tad, a childhood playmate and friendly rival of his youth, going through the horror of losing a hand . . . Will shook his head to clear it of the memory of his father's muffled screams.

"Just tell me Allan gets to be the decoy this time," said Will with a half-grin of his own.

"Oy," said Allan, tossing a knawed-over chicken bone in Will's direction. "How come it's always –"

"You two can argue all you like _after_ the fact," said Robin. "It's a hurried plan, but I think it will work . . ."

* * *

Will frowned. He was going to have to put another hole or two in his belt – at the moment, laden with his favourite knives and throwing hatchets, it was threatening to slide right past his hips and end up around his ankles. Will bent over to find an awl amongst his tools, stood up, and the belt did just that. He hurriedly stepped out of it and looked around – to his relief no one seemed to have noticed. Allan had taken to calling him "Scarecrow Will" lately, and Djaq and Much were always trying to get him to eat more – but he could never seem to work up an appetite. He always had too much on his mind to enjoy eating. His father, his brother, his old friends back in Locksley, always one wrong word away from torture and death at the hands of the Sherrif – their faces filled his mind at night. But more and more, he admitted to himself, it wasn't their faces that came between his mind and his stomach – but a round, Saracen face with large ebony eyes and a gentle smile. With her sitting beside him at meals, he didn't seem to need food.

"You need to eat more," said a soft voice behind him, startling him so badly the awl punched through the leather of his belt and into his palm.

"I'm so sorry!" Djaq said as she hurried forward and pressed a piece of cloth to his throbbing hand, but Will didn't notice. Her men's apparel had been replaced with a lovely blue linen kirtle; and it hugged her form in just the right way to remind Will what a lovely woman she was underneath the tunic & hose she usually wore.

"Don't mind the hand," said Will, "it's not deep. You look . . . um . . ." The words Will wanted to say caught in his throat. "You look, er, like a woman . . ."

Djaq rolled her eyes. "I should hope so! I'm not supposed to be passing for John's _brother_ when he goes on these runs! Are you sure your hand is alright?"

Will could only nod and hope his face wasn't turning as bright pink as he felt it was.

"I only came over here because I need someone to lace-up this kirtle in the back – Much is utterly useless with laces!" She turned around without another word, the gaping back of the dress revealing her thin linen chemise, and barely concealed beneath that Will could make-out the perfect S-curve of her back. His fingers – usually so deft with wood, and tools, and locks – fumbled with the leather laces. He had only made it about half-way up her back when Allan popped his sardonic face out from behind a tree.

"Really, Will, you look like you haven't handled a woman ever in your life! Come on, Scarecrow, have you never tied-up a sheave of wheat or laced up a leather hose in your life? Allow me, m'lady . . ."

He elbowed Will aside and took over the lacing with swift & confident hands. Will was torn between the desire to run away and the violent urge to bash Allan's face into a tree-trunk. Unable to muster either of these options, he sat down and attacked his belt with an awl.

"There you are, doll –" Djaq cut Allan's sweet talk off with an elbow in the ribs. She turned around and smiled sweetly.

"Call me 'doll' again, Allan, and I will ensure you spend the rest of your short life breathing through your ears!"

Will never got to hear the response Allan was trying to formulate between the series of vocal sputtering which followed, because Robin called him over to help sharpen arrows. Djaq sat down next to Will.

"Let me see your hand." She took his left hand and turned it palm up, examining the coin-sized blue bruise with small dot of now-dried blood in the middle. "Let me clean it out, at least. Even the smallest wound can fester if it's contaminated"

She pulled a small bottle from the bag of medical necessities she always wore on her belt, and uncorked the water bottle that also hung there. She rinsed his palm with water, then poured an amber liquid from the smaller bottle over it. It stung, but Will was used to the bite of splinters and tools in the woodshop, so his face betrayed no pain when her eyes met his. She smiled. Did her eyes seem to linger on his face, and did her hand hold his for longer than was wont? Will did not think it was his imagination, but he scarcely dared to hope.

"There," she said, releasing his hand. "Now go off and be one of Robin Hood's men – and if he returns you any the least bit broken after I've gone to so much trouble keeping you whole, he will have me to answer to!" She put a hand behind his head and pulled it down to her level so she could plant a sisterly kiss on his forehead. "Stay safe." She turned and walked away without another word, the hem of her blue kirtle stirring the forest leaves behind her just as her smile had stirred Will's heart.

* * *

The plan, as always, was simple but relied perhaps a little too much on the general stupidity of anyone wearing the Sherrif's colors. Will thought so, anyway. He was loitering near his father's old house, which had been taken over by a new carpenter, and was pretending to study the different wares on display. To his left was Much, trying to look as non-chalant in his lookout roll as possible. On his right, just over his shoulder, were the stocks where Tad the Smith's son stood looking bruised and dejected, guarded by two of the Sherrif's men. All Will had to do was wait for the signal.

Suddenly, on the far side of the village, came Allan's familiar screech. "FIRE! HELP! FIRE! OUR GRAIN BARN'S AFIRE!" Will turned with the rest of the passersby, some of whom had already begun to run in the direction of where Allan had planted smoke-pots underneath the thatch of the grain barn. With any luck, no grain would actually be lost. But, for the moment, the more panic the better.

"Fire!" Will joined in the shouting and ran across the square. He turned, to be sure the Sherrif's men could hear him. "OUR GRAIN TAX TO THE SHERRIF IS IN THAT BARN! IT CAN'T BE LOST!"

The two guards looked at each other, then shuffled off to towards the shouting to see what glory might be in it for them if they saved the Sherrif's loot. Will shook his head. "It works every time," he muttered as he ran up to the stocks.

Tad looked up as soon as Will began fiddling with the lock.

"Oh, they're sending bloody carpenter's rats to do a smith's work now, is it? Tell Robin he needs a new business plan!"

Will gave him a play smack across the top of the head. "Don't fret yourself, Tad, I'll have this open before you can say 'The Sherrif's a Saracen.'"

"The Sherriff's a Saracen."

"Very funny. Hold still."

Two more clicks and the stock cross-piece popped open.

"You're not done yet," said Tad, straightening up with a groan. "They've chained my ankles as well."

Will examined this new challenge. The locks, one for each ankle, were brand new, with complicated catches. He knew he could do it, but it would take a few minutes longer than their plan allotted. With a series of short whistles like a cuckoo's call, Much was at his side.

"Tell Robin we'll need to prepare for a hot exit. The guards might be back before I can spring this lock."

"Oh, he'll enjoy that one, he will!" Much laughed, then stopped at the look on Will's face. "You're not joking. Damn. He's never joking. Why does he never joke . . .?" Much ran off to Robin's perch on the hill above town, still muttering to himself.

"I think we might have more to worry about than guards," said Tad. Looking up, Will followed his line of sight until he too noticed the plume of road-dust approaching ever closer. The catch he had been wrestling with gave way. One more to go. His hands worked so fast that his tools sparked on the new padlock.

"You have to get out of here, Will!" said Tad, moving as if to put his head back in the stocks. "It's just a hand. If they catch you, it's your life, or worse! But losing a hand – it's not an un-survivable loss. You should know."

Will didn't look up from his work, but he hoped Tad would catch all that was meant in his tone of voice. "Yes, yes I do know. And I'm not leaving."

Sooner than he liked, Much was running towards them. He was badly out-of-breath by the time he reached Will' side.

"Robin says . . . come right away . . . 50 of the Sherrif's men . . . be here in seconds."

"Well, he'll just have to keep 50 arrows at the ready because this lock isn't going to spring itself."

"Will, just leave me!" cried Tad.

"Much, get out of here!" Will could feel the last of the lock giving way.

"I can't –"

"Just GO! We'll catch up!"

Everything seemed to happen at once. Much started running. The padlock fell open. Will grabbed Tad around the waist and dragged him down from the platform just as the Sheriff's men came thundering around the corner and into the square. Guy of Gisbourne was at their head.

"That boy is a condemned prisoner!" He heard Guy shout as he ran. In a few more seconds, when Robin's hilltop perch still seemed miles away, he heard another order. "And those are Robin Hood's men! ARCHERS! LOOSE! DAMN YOU, LOOSE!"

Will and the others broke into a sprint of pure panic. From above, he could see Robin & Allan plying their bows, and could hear the screams behind him as each green-feathered shaft found its mark. But they didn't seem to thin the rain of arrows mercilessly seeking the fugitives. A spike of cold fear pierced him when he saw Much fall with an arrow in his back.

He stopped. The sight of Much's still form, and the sound of Robin's scream of rage from the hill above numbed any thought of self-preservation that might've reared its head at that moment. Tad had stopped as well, was slinging Much up on his broad, smith's shoulders. But he would need time to reach the hill. Will pulled a hatchet from his belt, and shouted , "RUN, Tad! I'll handle them! Just get him to Robin! And don't look back!"

He turned, somehow not surprised that the closest pursuer was but a hatchet's swing away. Two of the black-armoured men fell with cloven helmets before Will's left shoulder was enveloped with a deep, burning pain. He looked down and saw the feather –end of an arrow embedded just below his collarbone. He felt a heavy, mailed fist slam into the side of his head. "Djaq is going to kill Robin . . ." was his last thought before darkness utterly overwhelmed him.


	2. A Daughter of the Prophet

**Sorry it's so short, but I'm not going to get a chance to post again until after the weekend (camping trip! what a merry band of outlaws we shall make!), so I figured I could just post what I had. Hope you enjoy - and do please take the time to review if you can!**

* * *

They were late. John was ceaselessly pacing on the ridge above camp. Djaq was trying to channel her anxiety into chopping the onions for that night's stew, but looking down she realised that she had already turned her onion into a fine paste.

"John! Stop pacing, you're making me nervous!"

"Be 'narvous!" said John, his attenuated accent evidence of his fear. "They're an hour late and it's not like Robin to change the plan without sending a messenger back! You're thinking the exact same thing I am – if they're not back in the time it takes me to walk to that tree and back 3 more times, I'm going to walk to Locksley and figure out what happened!"

"If they've been captured that's exactly what Gisbourne would want you to do. Sit down, eat something, and maybe your mind will return to sense!"

"WE DON'T NEED SENSE. WE NEED –" John stopped his bellowing and looked over his shoulder. "Did you hear that?"

Djaq left her cooking preparations and went to stand beside him. Indeed, there were faint sounds echoing from tree to tree – swift feet crashing through the underbrush in their direction. They weren't coming from the direction of Locksley. John gripped his staff, and growled. "Get ready to run," he whispered.

Djaq ran down to the fireside and drew the sword she always kept by her as she worked. "A daughter of the Prophet's house, leave the big Christian to be martyred while she fled?" she said when she got back to John's side. "You've clearly never been to the Holy Land."

The sound of crashing feet grew closer. As the sounds became more distinct, Djaq's attuned ears caught something else. These were not the sounds of soldiers, purposefully marching toward a goal. There was desperation in these steps. One man was walking much slower than the others, as if he were carrying something heavy. Another was running ahead of the main group. She followed the sound to the northwest and saw a dark-clad figure stumbling towards them.

"Allan!" cried Little John. They ran towards him. When he saw them coming he collapsed to his knees on the forest floor. Djaq reached him first.

"Are you hurt, Allan?" She lifted his head to examine his face, but he pushed her away.

"Naw . . . I'm fine . . . really . . . just winded . . . is all. John! Go help . . . Robin needs your . . . Robin needs your help."

John followed Allan's well-broken path without another word. "Has Robin been hurt?" Djaq asked, handing him the bottle off her belt. He shook his head, and gulped down some water.

"It's Much." He couldn't seem to meet her eyes. "He was hit in the back with an arrow."

Djaq let out a breath, then took Allan's face in her hands and forced him to look at her. "What about the others? Tad? Will?"

"Tad's fine. He's the one been carryin' Much –"

"And Will?" Allan tried to look away but Djaq wouldn't let him. She could feel the hot coals of readying grief deep in her stomach. "Allan! You are going to tell me. What. Has happened. To Will Scarlet."

Allan could barely whisper the words. "They took him . . . He was wounded, and they took him."

Djaq wanted to scream. To defy the Prophet's instructions and cry aloud and rend her clothing, as the Jewish widows did in Acre. She wanted to take up her sword and run all the way to Nottingham, slaying as she went.

But here was John, running towards her through the woods, with Much in his arms. There were Robin and Tad coming after him, blood staining their tunics. She clenched her fists until her palms ached, and allowed one single tear to fall from her eyes. Then she got to her feet and ran back to camp to prepare a bed for Much.

* * *

For a long time, Will seemed absolutely alone. He was floating, untethered to earth or body or pain, through a maelstrom of old memories. His father. His brother. The smell of a carpenter's shop. The sound of an axe chopping through flesh and bone. Djaq's voice. The feeling of a noose tightening around his neck. Djaq's laughing eyes. After a while, his body began to remember itself, piece by piece. A small, insistent throb of pain in his temple. The side of his face resting on a stone floor. The sensation of not being able to draw breath fully. His feet, shackled together.

His mind made its first real effort to wake him at the realization that he was in chains, and with wakefulness the real pain began. His head felt twice its normal size, and the dull throbbing morphed with each painful, hesitant breath into a vice of lightning. He tried to move, to sit up, to open his eyes and more fully understand his predicament, but every shifting muscle drained him. After fighting the weakness and dizziness for a few minutes he gave up, and tried relaxing back onto the stone floor. But now, when he needed it most, the comforting darkness would not return. Every point of his body in contact with the floor ached. The left side of his chest felt as if it were being crushed from the inside out by a boot of hot iron. He tried rolling over, but when he did, what had seemed to be the outer limits of what a man could endure proved only a foretaste. His eyes popped open, and if he had had any extra breath in his lungs he would have screamed. Rolling back into his original position, he realised the reason for his extreme discomfort: the arrow had not been removed from his shoulder.

Suddenly he heard a door scrape open. His gaze drifted listlessly towards the noise, but all he could see were three pairs of feet shod in fine embroidered leather. "Well," said a too-familiar voice, "look what Guy brought home for Daddy to play with . . . Suppose you thought it might appease me seeing as this ISN'T ROBIN HOOD!"

It sounded to Will as if the Sherriff had struck Sir Guy, but he didn't have much time to be amused – instead of finishing-off Gisbourne, as he no-doubt wanted to, Vaisey turned and kicked Will in the stomach several times. His body curled around itself as well as it could while chained to the floor, and for a few minutes all Will could think about was air, how badly he needed it, and the debt of pain he had to pay each time he needed more. Above the sound of his own desperate coughing, Will heard the Sherriff instructing the owner of the third pair of shoes.

"See to it he doesn't die – I'm going to want him for later."


	3. England's Heart

**Awake, Arise**

**Chapter 3: England's Heart**

_Hey peeps! Thanks for waiting – camp-out was fantastic! Hope you'll enjoy this longerish chapter, though I'm afraid the action does slow down a little bit. Don't worry – there should be plenty of blood & guts, as well as some more Will/Djaq-ness in the next section ;-)_

_On a historical note, I realise that the word "dentist" was not actually used until the 19__th__ century. In the middle ages, surgeons & physicians also did work on teeth, so I suppose I imagined Ethelbert as such a surgeon who prefers that work exclusively. I use the term "dentist" for lack of a better one, though I suppose the medievals probably did have a term for that sort of thing – they were so good with words :-)_

_Also - used Google Translate for the Arabic. Don't know if it's at all right. Hopefully any of y'all Arabic speakers out there can forgive my complete ignorance of your beautiful tongue!_

* * *

"Aren't you going to take that arrow out?"

"Will he be alright?"

"Djaq, I'm sorry about –"

"Is there anything I can-"

Djaq slammed the hilt of her dagger against a nearby stone, causing sparks to fly and the overwhelming chatter around her to cease.

"IF I CANNOT HAVE SILENCE AROUND THIS SICK BED I AM GOING TO HAVE JOHN TIE YOU ALL TO A TREE A MILE FROM HERE AND NOT LET YOU GO UNTIL I AM FINISHED! الله يرحم ولكن لا يوجد لديك النفوس!"

Silence fell, but no one seemed to know what else to do. Allan & John moved a little ways away to sit by the fire, but only Allan reached for the food prepared there. Tad walked to the edge of camp, perhaps sensing that he could not bear as much of a part in the collective grief. Robin sat down on the other side of Much's bed and put a hand on his friend's. He looked up at Djaq. "What do you need?"

"I need you to make a decision for me."

"And that is?"

Djaq took Robin's hand and looked him straight in the eye. "The arrow is in an odd spot. There is a . . . a chance that it has not injured anything internally, and if I pull it out, and he survives any subsequent infection – he will heal nicely."

"And the greater chance is?"

"It is that the arrow has hit a vital spot in his bowels and if I pull it out, he will almost assuredly die."

"But if you leave it in he will die anyway."

"He might linger many days but, yes, eventually he will die."

"Then I'm not sure what you're asking me. Obviously there is only one thing we can do – pull the arrow out. And then pray God's mercy."

Djaq nodded. "Put your hand here."

Robin obeyed, putting pressure on the wound as Djaq pulled the arrow free with one forceful tug. Much coughed and seemed to breathe a little easier. Djaq examined the wound, which was bleeding less than she had expected – the arrow had embedded itself in the muscles of the diaphragm. With a sigh of relief, she gestured to Robin. "Hand me those bandages."

He obeyed, watching her work with quiet intensity. Djaq thought he seemed like a hunter, waiting with singular focus for his prey to come into view. "Well?" he said after she was done bandaging.

She smiled, but shook her head. "No promises. But his breathing encourages me."

Robin let out a long breath and his body relaxed for the first time since he'd lain Much down. "Thank you. Much is . . . I don't know what I would've . . . He just . . ." Robin gave up trying to express himself and stood up, grabbing his sword and bow.

"Where are you going?"

"It will be a few days before we can leave Much alone, correct?"

"Yes, if he improves at a healthy rate, he might be good on his own in . . . 2 days?"

"Then I'm going to Nottingham."

"To see about Will?"

"Don't worry, Djaq. He's alive, and he'll stay alive or my name isn't Robin Hood."

"Well," said Djaq, raising an eyebrow. "Technically it isn't."

Robin smirked. "Leave it to a Saracen to take everything literally . . . Seriously, Djaq, I swear to you on the cross of – well, I swear on the grave of Mohammed that I will bring Will back alive and unharmed."

Djaq stood up and walked to where Robin was, staring him straight on. "That is a bold vow, Lord of Locksley. We both know he's already been harmed. Never make promises you can't keep – especially not on the Prophet's grave!"

Robin put his bow down, and placed both hands on Djaq's shoulders. "You're right. I am over-bold. I have to be, or the fear would . . ." He cleared his throat, blinked away a threatening tear and continued. "I vow – on my life, and on yours – that I will do all in my power to save Will. I'll go and find out where he is, then I will come back here and we will all together make a plan to save our friend. But you have to trust me."

Djaq bit her lip and closed her eyes, trying to shut out the image of Will, bleeding and in pain and alone somewhere in the stone bowels of that monstrous castle. "Robin, I do trust you – or believe me I would have been long gone back to Acre by now! But Will trusted . . . Will trusts you to. Don't worry about me. I want your whole mind on him. As mine is."

Robin nodded, picked up his bow, and disappeared into the forest.

* * *

Will looked up with bleary eyes as the cell door slammed shut. The owner of the third pair of shoes was leaning over him. The face, as well as Will's still-blurred vision could attest, was round and clean-shaven - a redhead with rather large ears. A cold, thin hand touched him, and Will instinctively pulled away.

"Don' fret yourself, now, I ain't gonna hurt you. Just checkin' this head of yours. God, your shoulder's a bleedin' mess . . . Wish we could get these chains off you. Oy, guard!" Will could hear a soldier clanking down the Hallway.

"Shut up in there!" came the harsh order.

"I'm sorry," said the Redhead. "But I can't properly treat this boy if he's chained up like this. Could we at least take the manacles off of his hands?"

The soldier grunted, and before long Will felt the cold, grating metal fall from his wrists. The pain as his shoulders tried to relax back into their natural position was excruciating – Will bit his lip and groaned. The Redhead moved behind him and eased his head and shoulders up onto his lap.

"There now," said the Redhead. "We just have to get this arrow out of you, then we'll bandage you up and you'll be right as rain!"

"Who are you?" Will's voice sounded to himself like someone shoveling gravel. Then he heard the Redhead lift the cork out of stone jug. Soon cool water was flowing past his teeth, and he sucked so greedily at it he lost half of it down his front.

"Easy now," said the Redhead, lifting his head so he could drink more easily. "My name is Ethelbert. And you are?"

"Will . . . Will Scarlet. You're a physician?"

"Well, technically I'm a Surgeon . . . with a Specialisation in the Art of Oral Hygiene . . ."

"You're a dentist."

"I'm what Sherriff Vaisey happened to have on hand. I'd love to offer help a little more within my expertise – though Lord knows you've very fine teeth and don't seem to need me at all. I'm sorry I've not had more experience with war-wounds such as this . . ."

"You're the Sherriff's dentist?"

"Well, more properly I _was_ his dentist, 'til earlier this afternoon when I became his prisoner . . ."

"Prisoner?"

"I was examining the fit of the latest gold cap on that vicious incisor of his. I wasn't going fast enough, so he hit me. My tool slipped and I chipped the tooth. Thus, I find myself here until the Sherriff needs another tooth fitting and sees fit to let me go . . . or he forgets about me and I die in his dungeons."

"I hope you'll pardon me saying, Ethelbert, that you seem rather cheerful for a man possibly facing a life sentence."

"Well, you seem rather stoic for a boy with a stick through his shoulder. Let's see to that before we count our other sorrows, shall we?"

Will nodded and closed his eyes, setting his teeth against the pain he knew was coming. With a snap of his long, deft fingers, Ethelbert broke the arrow in half. A scream built in Will's chest, but he sucked air in and refused to let it out. With one long tug the arrow came free. He could feel his heartbeat slow, and his vision doubled as he watched the bloods stain spread across his chest. The scream turned into a black, crushing night that rushed up from his chest into his head, and everything went black.

* * *

Djaq jerked awake from where she had fallen asleep next to Much's bed. She had been dreaming that she was locked in a dark cell, and just on the other side of the wall she could hear Will screaming. She had dug at the walls with her fingernails and yelled and pounded at the stones, but still he screamed for mercy and there was nothing she could do. She shook her head, trying to clear her still-ringing eardrums of the phantom sounds.

"Nice to see the nightmares being evenly distributed around here," said a weak voice from the bed.

"Much! Thank Allah you've woken! Robin will be so glad."

"Yes – but am _I_ glad I've woken?" He tried to sit up, but gave up with a whimper after a second or two. "Ow."

"Where are you in pain?" asked Djaq, trying to forget Will and focus on the healing she _could_ accomplish.

"Everywhere."

"Really?"

"Well, everywhere mostly here," he said, gesturing to his upper abdomen. Djaq helped him turn over on his side and examined the entry and exit wounds. There was no sign of infection, and when she put an ear to his upper back his breathing sounded unhampered.

"Well," said Much when she'd helped him lie back down. "Am I dying? How much time do I have?"

"Don't be a ridiculous baby, Much. Your pain is a signal that your body is working in the way it was created. You're just going to have to be patient until it lets you get up and cook for us once more!"

"Right. Well, mayhap I'm happy for a little time off on that score." He settled back and looked around. "Where is everyone? No crowd of well-wishers and prayers-for-my-soul at my bedside? I thought as much . . ."

Djaq allowed herself to laugh a little. "I sent John and Allan and Tad into the wood on a hunt for yarrow and lavender for your fever. Robin is . . . in Nottingham."

"Whatever for? Not alone, I hope. Will is with him, then?"

Djaq's words caught in her throat, and she could only shake her head.

Much's tone grew more serious. "Djaq, what happened to Will? Is he . . ."

"He's not dead." Djaq let out a shuddering breath. "He has been badly wounded . . . and captured . . . But he's not dead. He can't be . . . He can't be . . ." Somehow the look of devastation on Much's pale, honest face gave her the permission to express what she'd been trying to deny all day around the others. Tears escaped her eyes, and before she knew it she was sobbing into Much's bed and his hand was rubbing her back. She thought she heard him crying too.

"I'm so sorry, Djaq," he said after a little while. "I'm sure it's my fault. Somehow. I'm so, so very sorry."

"N-nn-no," she sobbed, trying to take in a full breath and clear the tears from her eyes. With a few more deep breaths she had brought herself more fully under control. "No. There was nothing you could have done. He did what any of you would have done. No, Much, you're not allowed to blame yourself for this one."

"Well, I wish I could. If it would make you feel better."

"Probably not . . . but thank you."

"Robin will think of something. He always does. We've been in tighter spots before, haven't we? Will is going to be fine. Probably back with us before sunset. Most likely picking a lock and springing himself right now!"

"I wish I could believe you."

"But you believe in Will, don't you? I've seen the way you . . ." Something about the warning look in Djaq's eyes made him back off that subject. He cleared his throat. "I know you admire him, er, the way the rest of us do. He's a brave, capable young man and we have every reason to hope. He'll probably end up rescuing Robin before the day is out. Robin won't be able to look any of us in the face for days! In fact, don't you remember –"

"Much?"

"Yes, Djaq?"

"Shut up."

* * *

"There now, better?" said Ethelbert, as Will's mind slowly pulled itself out of the dark, comfortable well of unconsciousness.

"Besides the almost-bleeding-to-death bit? Yes . . ."

"Now, now, no need for drama!" Will noticed that the dentist had pressed wads of cotton against the entry and exit wounds and was just finishing binding them with bandages. "Plenty of time for that when you're feeling better."

"You don't understand, Ethelbert . . . The only reason the Sherriff wants you to heal me is so he can have me conscious for the torturer later. I don't think I'll be 'feeling better' ever again . . . You'd have done me better just letting me die."

Ethelbert eased Will down onto the floor and put his bag under his head for a pillow. "Tsk, lad, that's Sherriff's talk, that is. That's what all powerful men would wish, isn't it? For us to prefer a death-like peace over the trouble of living and fighting them?"

"I would prefer to live, and to fight. But languishing away . . . a broken, shriveled wreck in a dungeon doesn't seem the most effective way, you must admit." A deep, painful cough shook Will's body, and Ethelbert had to once again lift him and help him to drink.

"You're one of Robin Hood's men, are you not?" said Ethelbert when Will could draw breath once again.

"Yes."

"Then you are not simply the brave young man who just had an arrow pulled from his shoulder without so much as crying out. Your courage is not only your own - though your own would prove more than enough for many in this world – but . . ." Ethelbert placed a gentle hand on Will's chest. ". . . the strength of your heart draws from the well of goodness in the heart of England. You are Robin Hood's man, the representative of every person who ever stood against injustice even unto the shedding of his blood – from Christ Jesu on His cross to King Alfred in the marshes to your own band of merry outlaws. You do not need to rely on your own small strength alone – your heart is England's."

Will tried to smile. "You're very eloquent for a dentist . . . especially one in the Sherriff's employ."

"Former employ, remember?"

The sound of feet stalking down the corridor interrupted their banter, and before long the Sherriff was at the door of the cell with several guards.

"Well, Ethelbee, will he live?"

"It'd take more than an arrow of yours to kill this one, sire. He will not be out of danger for some days, however, so I-"

"Did I ask your opinion, Ethel?" The Sherriff licked at the empty space in his teeth. "No, don't believe I did. Don't need him strong, just need him breathing. Take the dentist away to his cell. Take the outlaw below."

The Sherriff disappeared into the dark hallway, and Will felt Ethelbert tuck a small pouch into his belt. The dentist leaned down to whisper in his ear as the guards fiddled with the lock on the door. "In the pouch is a compress I use after tooth extractions – it may help in your case. Just apply it once the bleeding slows down. Remember, Will – you need not rely on your own strength alone. Remember the strength of God and of all good men."

Will looked him in the eye as the guards took the dentist by the arms to lead him away.

"Thank you, Ethelbert. I won't forget."

* * *

_**Hope to have the next chapter up by the end of the week! (We'll see how that goes). Enjoy! (Please Review?)**_


	4. Allah, the Most Merciful

**Awake, Arise**

**Chapter 4: Allah, the Most Merciful**

**Well, here it is, finally :-/ Sorry it's so long and rambly – it could probably use a cut –edit here and there but I couldn't decide which part to get rid of (any of y'all have opinions on the matter feel free to share) :-D**

**This chapter contains my greatest anachronisms to-date: the inclusion of a poem (from "The Ballad of the White Horse") by G.K. Chesterton written in the early 20****th**** century (my one excuse is that the poem is about King Alfred the Great, and it could **_**conceivably**_** stand-in for an actual, period poem about the same ;-P), and also a bit from a poem from the 16****th**** century (from "The Dark Night of the Soul" by St. John of the Cross). Sorry, I know I railed about the series' costuming and how anachronistic it was - but I really, really love that Chesterton poem and wanted some way to include it. I hope GKC's ghost will forgive me ;-) To my credit, the third poem-excerpt **_**is**_** period, from an 11****th**** century Ango-Saxon battle poem commemorating the Battle of Maldon in 991 A.D. ...**

**If any of y'all are Muslim and find that I am mistaken on any of my details for Djaq's evening-prayer scene - I'm sorry, I only had Wikipedia to go on. I'd welcome any corrective notes you can give me!**

**On a quasi-related side note: I discovered while researching some of this chapter that Islamic sacred music is incredibly gorgeous – I suggest doing a YouTube search for "Muslim Call to Prayer" and listening to some of what comes up while reading this.**

**On a non-related side-side note: Eastern Christian music is also incredibly gorgeous. After you've had your fill of the glories Islam has to offer, go to YouTube and search for anything sung by Divna Ljubojevic ;-P It's amazing where you get if you follow the YouTube rabbit-hole deep enough . . .**

* * *

Robin pushed aside the grate which led from the drains in the Nottingham castle kitchens to the trash heap outside. Of all the ways he & Marian had worked out of getting in and out of the place, this was definitely the most pungent, but also the quickest if one were headed for the dungeons. Before long he had worked his way through the worst of the ooze and slipped out of the grate at the other side, smelling of onions and rotting meat. A guard chose that moment to come around a corner, only to be met with a Lincoln-green elbow in the face.

"Sorry for the headache, friend," said Robin as he appropriated his livery and helmet and stuffed the bound-and-gagged body back into the drainage grate out of which he had come. "Meanwhile, dream of the feast your missing. Smells like stuffed peacock's on the menu . . ."

He hurried down the too-familiar stair that lead to the main dungeons, nodding to another guard as he passed. "Sherriff wants you in the North Tower," Robin said, smirking as he watched the other one hurry off to the opposite end of the castle. He shook his head. "This is always too easy."

He opened the outer door of the dungeon with the keys he'd taken from the guard he'd felled, fully expecting to find Will on the other side. But when Robin stood in the middle of the quadrant of cells, the only prisoner he could see was a well-dressed, redheaded man sitting serenely in a corner, humming to himself.

"Hey! Wasn't there another prisoner in here?" said Robin, trying to assume a guard's gruff, demanding tone.

"You're too late, Robin, they've already locked him up tight in the chambers below. You'd need seven separate keys off seven separate guards who are never on duty at the same time – or be the Sherriff himself - to get in."

Robin took off his helmet and strode over to the door of the redhead's cell. "Well, I can see there's no fooling you, friend. Do we know each other?"

The man shook his head. "I don't know many of the Sherriff's guards to wear Lincoln-green hose. It's rather a passé colour in these parts."

"I don't know many of the Sherriff's prisoners to wear vair-lined silk Bliauts, either. Though I see yours is stained with blood . . . are you injured?"

"No, no . . . I'm afraid it's his," said the man. "Your Will Scarlett's."

Robin leaned his head against the bars and let out a long, slow breath. "What have they done to him?"

"Nothing much worse than send an arrow clean through his shoulder and then bash him on the head, but I know the Sherriff's got much worse in store – a spell in the torture chamber at the moment. Then some . . . entertainment in the square tomorrow."

Robin narrowed his eyes. "How do you know all this? Who are you?"

"Ethelbert of Alfstane. Formerly dentist to the Sherriff, lately appointed Surgeon to inmates and lord of all I can put my hand to. Which isn't much, but "Blessed are the poor," correct?"

"'For theirs is the kingdom of heaven,' said Robin, finishing the passage and looking about. "Some heaven."

"Ah," said Ethelbert. "But the 'kingdom of God is within you!' I expect it everywhere."

"Are you a dentist, Ethelbert, or a friar? Or a spy? How do you know what the Sherriff has planned for my man?"

"Lord Vaisey, like most vain men, is in love with the sound of his own voice. Likes the sound of it so much he has developed the unfortunate habit of talking to himself while walking down long, stone corridors. They carry sound so very well."

"Have you seen the Lady Marian or her father about the castle?"

"Nay – last I heard the gossip was that they travel to York Cathedral to have a mass said there for her poor mother. Dead ten years this Sunday, I'd reckon it . . ."

"Were you able to help Will?"

"I pray so," said Ethelbert, standing up and walking over to where Robin stood. "His body needs time and rest I'm afraid the Sherriff will not give him. But I'd brought him 'round, and bandaged him as well I could. His spirits were still up when they took him away . . . There'll be a couple guards smarting from well-deserved bruises in the next few days, I shouldn't wonder."

"I'm glad for that, at the least. What's this 'entertainment' that you say the Sherriff has planned?"

"All I know is that Bertha's Circus Maximus is due to be in town tomorrow, and her man was here earlier asking for permission to perform. I heard he and the Sherriff talking later about adding a prisoner or two to the, er, gladiatorial portion of the show."

Robin slammed a hand into the cell bars and began pacing the space in the middle of the room. "I have to figure out a way to spring him. Tonight."

"You can't! Not in the cell he's in now!"

"Don't tell me I can't! There isn't another option. There's no way he's facing gladiators in a fixed fight tomorrow . . . therefore my only choice is to get down there before –"

"You'd only get yourself killed going in alone! England needs you at least as much as Scarlet does."

"Don't tell me what England needs! Will is my friend!"

"Hush, my lad! Are you trying to bring the whole castle down on our heads? I've been sitting here puzzling it out since they took him away, and I've a plan that might work – if we had enough hands to help."

"So now you're a dentist, a friar, and an escape artist?"

"Why does dentistry cause everyone to doubt a man's abilities! There are some fascinating problems presented by men's mouths – even so, is a man not allowed to seek skills outside of his own profession?"

Robin raised an eyebrow. "You're saying that _you_ wouldn't doubt _me_ if I told you I knew how to cure a toothache?"

"Well? Do you?"

"Can we stay on point?" Robin walked back to the main door of the dungeon and made sure the corridor was still empty. "Now" he said, "tell me about this plan."

* * *

Will knew that the Sherriff wanted him conscious once the guards managed to get him down to the torture chamber, and tried to take advantage of the fact. If he were going to die gruesomely, he wanted the last men he would ever see in this world to remember him. As well as his poor store of strength allowed, he elbowed and kicked and bit the men struggling to move him down the last flight of steps. One guard stumbled and somersaulted the rest of the way, knocking the rest of them off their balance. They all tripped forward and landed in a heap on top of the first man to fall, Will by some miracle landing uppermost. He rolled off and managed to hobble up a few of the steps before he stumbled up against someone wearing a black tunic and heavy leather boots.

The Sherriff grabbed Will by the throat and slammed him against the wall, turning over his shoulder to shout at his associates. "AM I SURROUNDED BY INCOMPETANTS! TAKES FIVE OF YOU TO GET A HALF-DEAD BOY FROM ONE ROOM TO ANOTHER? I'LL HAVE YOU ALL IN THE STOCKS!" Then he turned to Will, squeezing a leather-gloved hand around his throat until it was impossible for him to breathe. Will didn't want to give the Sherriff the satisfaction of seeing his body beg for air, but he couldn't help it. He kicked feebly and beat his manacled hands on the Sherriff's chest.

"Remember what it feels like? Your body helpless, spinning in the air, blind, ears ringing, impossible to draw breath . . ." Will's mind was exploding with colors and strange, haunting sounds – some like the memory of his father's screams that day not-so-long before.

" . . . _I love you Luke! I love you, Will!"_

The Sherriff released the pressure just long enough to slam Will's head against the wall a second time, time enough for Will to take an uneven breath and avoid passing out completely. "I'm going to make you beg for the mercy of that day," said the Sherriff, quietly. "I assure you. When I am finished with you, not only will you have spilled your lavender, beggar-loving guts and told me where your friends are, but you are going to wish for a death as quick as hanging."

He dragged Will, who was just barely holding on to consciousness, to the chamber door and threw him inside. A hulking shadow stirred in the corner of the room.

"Give him the lash," the Sherriff ordered the menacing presence as Will writhed and coughed on the floor. "Soften him up a bit. Don't let him lie down at all, and for goodness sake don't feed him anything. You remember what happened the last time ..."

The Sherriff spun on his heels and snapped ominously at the guards still picking themselves up off the floor of the antechamber. "It's your heads if he escapes. I'll be back later – I have a feast to attend!"

* * *

The sun was setting by the time Robin returned to camp. Djaq put down the bowl of soup she'd been trying to get Much to swallow and ran to meet him at the edge of camp. "Will. Is he -?"

"He's alive. Much?"

"Awake."

Robin smiled and hurried the rest of the way to Much's bedside. "Is Will alright?" asked the invalid.

"'Alright' is a relative term," said Robin. "But I know for a fact that the Sherriff means to keep him breathing until at least tomorrow afternoon."

Djaq gave a short, humorless laugh, and the men looked at her with puzzled faces.

"I just remembered what I told Will this morning. That if Robin brought him back even the least bit injured I would kill Robin."

Robin didn't smile, but his eyes did sparkle in their usual way as he put a hand on Djaq's shoulder. "Well," he said, "can you wait until I've brought him back to kill me? My head will be at your disposal."

"What makes you think I'd be so merciful as to behead you, Robin of Locksley?"

"Because . . . Will would be sad otherwise?"

Djaq let the tiniest hint of a smile show at the corner of her mouth, then looked over her shoulder at the setting sun. "I must go say my prayers. See to it that Much finishes that broth. The others should be back from their errands soon – we can plan then. A good plan might just save your head, Robin. But only maybe."

Djaq walked away from the camp in the direction of the setting sun, trying to quiet her mind. She closed her eyes, hearing in her mind the haunting call of the _muezzin_ from the turrets of Acre.

الله اكبرحي على خير العمل . . .حي على الصلاة . . . اشهد ان لا اله الا اللهالله اكبر

_God is great . . . come to prayer . . . God is great._

Djaq reached a tree in the forest with an arrow notched in its bark, pointing the way towards Mecca. She retrieved the prayer rug stored in its branches and laid it out, reciting the proper verses to turn her heart towards Allah. But as she removed her shoes, ritually cleansing her feet and face with earth because she had no running water nearby, she could not direct her heart properly towards prayer. She could not take her mind from that kind, gentle English boy, now so broken and alone.

Will Scarlett, quietly completing his tasks around camp while Much fretted and Alan complained. The fierce fighter - relentless, never doubting himself or his leader, but always readier to spare a life than take it. The gentle way he spoke, never saying more than was needed but always ready to encourage. The desperately puzzled way he always looked at her. Djaq laughed and wiped away a tear at the same time.

As she stood to begin her prayers – "_In the name of Allah, the Most Beneficent, The Most Merciful . . ." – _Djaq's mouth formed the customary words, just as she had every evening for 10 years; but in her heart she could only beg Allah to have mercy on this one, Christian man.

* * *

Somewhere the sun was setting. _21._ Djaq was handing roasted apples to the others, gathered around a blazing fire. _22._ She was singing the long, lamenting prayers of her homeland when she thought he wasn't listening. _23_. … _Or was it 24?_ The whip fell again. _25?_ It curled around him and ripped at the skin on his stomach. His eyes shot open involuntarily and a hiss of pain escape his lips. Will tried to close them again, to will himself back to that peaceful camp in the Sherwood. But the blows were falling faster now, less rhythmically, from odd angles, and now all he could do in between the periodic explosions of pain was try and remember how to breathe.

_28. 29. 30. _Surely his tormentor must be getting tired. Was he slowing down? _31. 32. _His mind tried to retreat from the pain in his back, to find some part of his body that still felt _normal_. But it had little success. His arms, stretched above his head by a heavy chain, seemed strained beyond endurance – yet they did not give way at the wrists even though Will felt they must at any moment. _37. 38. _The wound in his shoulder was crushing his whole left side in a vice – exacerbated by the uncomfortable position of his arms. His mouth was so dry he was sure he could drain the River Trent and still not be satisfied. His head ached from the dehydration. _39._

The blows stopped. The whip clattered as it fell to the floor. With a harsh screech a lever was released and the chain suspending him by the arms loosened. Will fell to the floor. The stones seemed deliciously cool against his ravaged back and fevered skin. His torturer picked him up by the chain on his wrists and dragged him a few feet, securing the chain to a ring on the wall, leaving Will in a sitting position with his arms suspended above him. "There," the shadowy figure muttered, half to himself. "Figger he's soft enough now. Me arms shorely are. He can't lay down loik that, so's that's obeyed . . . Better leaves him wit some water so he don't drift off to 'ell in the night . . ." A soft water-skin was thrust into Will's hand, and his torturer grabbed him by the hair and forced him to look up at him. He had a broad, hairy face and eyes like empty tunnels. "Now, if anybody asks, I were here fer 'ours learnin' ye yer manners. Beat ye within' an inch o' yer scrawny life, ye mind me?" He backhanded Will to cement his point.

"Right! You never left me alone. And I'm lucky to be alive."

"Right. Now I'm off to see if they left any o' tha' peacock fer ole' Jinks . . ." He took the one flickering torch with him, and when his huge form disappeared up the stairwell, Will was left in complete darkness. "Granted, it feels like you _did_ beat me within an inch of my scrawny life," said Will to the silence.

The water-skin was half-full, and with his arms chained the way they were it took Will a good few minutes to figure out the best way to aim a stream of water into his mouth instead of his face. It was warm and tasted of stale pond water – but to Will it could have been water from the Grael itself. He had to harness every scrap of available will-power to avoid drinking it all at once.

The cold, stone night pressed in around him, and Will shivered. He pulled his legs up in front of his chest in an attempt to warm himself. The darkness reminded him of his home when he was young – on the harsh autumn nights when it was not yet quite cold enough to justify spending wood on a fire. His mother would gather he and Luke into her lap and cover them with the family's prized wolfskin. She would sing to them and recite many things she had learned from the monks as a young girl, when her parents were tenants and servants at Rufford Abbey. Will could remember bits and scraps of the poems and songs, held in his heart his entire life as an antidote to cold and darkness.

_Oh night thou wast my guide_  
_Oh night more loving than the rising sun._  
_Oh night that brought the Lover to the beloved one . . ._

His father had preferred the more martial poems – the tales of the Holy Saxon Kings and their triumphs over the Danes. Words from a battle-poem – from a war which had not ended well for the Saxon cause - came to Will's weary mind almost immediately.

_ … Our minds shall be firmer, our hearts all the keener,_  
_Our courage the more as our strength dwindles! …_

_Courage._Will knew that the others thought of him as a brave man. He was a good fighter, and had survived a poverty-stricken and persecuted youth after Robin had left for the Crusades. "But I've never been tortured before," he said aloud. "The Sherriff's right – hanging doesn't count. It was all over so quickly . . ." His voice echoed in the darkness, and for a moment Will's half-fevered mind fancied he was the only man alive, and that the entire world had contracted into this cold, empty cell. He'd heard tales of stronger men than he going mad and giving up all their secrets at the mere sight of the boot, the wheel, or the rack. Tales of warriors, veterans of thousands of battles, reduced to whimpering children at the first hiss of a hot-iron on their flesh.

The only stories he could conjure in his mind of men bravely withstanding torture were the tales of the martyred saints which Fr. Aldred read on feast-days. Hadn't St. Lawrence been grilled alive over hot coals, only dying after he had cheekily told his torturer to turn him over for "he was done on that side?" St. Sebastian had been shot full of arrows and miraculously survived - only to denounce his heathen prince a second time and end up getting beaten to death. St. Irene's eyes had been gouged out. St. Catherine was broken on a wheel. "But were they really all that brave, or does the Church only remember them that way?" mused Will. Had Sebastian begged for mercy? Had Irene betrayed her friends? And Will knew, at the least, that he himself was no saint.

He was going to die. And he was going to die ashamed of himself. Fear of that fact seized his whole body, dwarfing his physical pain – for flesh could heal, or flesh could die, but if he passed into eternity with the black marks of betrayal and cowardice on his soul – what then?

"_You are the only person in the world who could believe that you will die a coward, Will Scarlett."_

The familiar voice came out of the surrounding night like a flash of lightning, startling Will so badly he dropped the water-skin. "Djaq? You can't be here! They'll capture you to! They'll torture you -"

"_Shhhhh. I wish it, Will. I wish I could break your chains and let you out of here. You do but dream, friend."_

"I'm dreaming? Doesn't feel like it." He could see a light in the corner of his cell, like a door opening on the end of a long hall. The bright "door" grew closer and closer until he could make out the form of Djaq, his lovely Djaq – dressed not in her familiar outlaw garb or the dress of an English village-girl, but in a white gown and veil such as he guessed the Muslim ladies of Acre wore. Light fell from her like leaves in a windstorm. , and though Will's eyes had seen nothing but darkness for hours, the light did not bother them.

"Isn't everything supposed to stop hurting when you dream? 'Cause everything still hurts …"

The Dream Djaq knelt beside him. "_I am so sorry, Will." _She picked up the water bottle and held it to his lips, then put it back in his hand. She leaned down and kissed the wound on his shoulder.

"How is this possible?"

"_It's a dream. Stop asking so many questions._" Her hands sought out each bruise, each cut, and when she touched them they ached just a little less.

"I'm sorry."

"_For what?"_

"I'm not strong enough. The Sherriff will get me to tell him everything. You'll have to run. Even if he lets me live we'll never see each other again."

"_Have you so little faith in yourself?"_

"I'm just a man."

"_All heroes are men."_

"Robin's the hero. I'm just . . . the craftsman. I pick locks and make weapons and occasionally I brain people with my hatchet. I don't care what Ethelbert said – my heart is my own – not England's. It's small and doubting and hates pain. I can't do this!"

"_Has it ever occurred to you that every hero thinks the same thing? Courage is not something you feel before the crisis. It is what is left when everything else is lost."_

"Djaq, I . . ."

"_Yes, Will?"_

"If I die . . . I'm sorry . . . there are things I've never told you. Now is maybe my last chance. And I don't know what to say."

"_Do not fear – you will get your chance."_

"But what if I –"

"_Shhhh . . . my time is short. I can only leave you with something to remember tomorrow. I can promise you only this: you will endure until you can no longer endure, and only then will you discover your true heart."_

The light was growing dimmer, and as the darkness grew around him and the pain in his limbs returned, Djaq's face suddenly looked like his mother's, and her voice combined with the memory of his mother singing an old ballad about King Alfred - the part where the young warrior from Wessex has a vision of the Mother of God while he is hiding, soundly beaten, from the invading Danes. The song encompassed the words of the Holy Virgin to the King; and as the dream faded, Will's mother and his sweetheart sang him back to sleep.

"_The men of the East may spell the stars,_

_And times and triumphs mark,_

_But the men signed of the cross of Christ_

_Go gaily in the dark._

_"The men of the East may search the scrolls_

_For sure fates and fame,_

_But the men that drink the blood of God_

_Go singing to their shame._

_"The wise men know what wicked things_

_Are written on the sky,_

_They trim sad lamps, they touch sad strings,_

_Hearing the heavy purple wings,_

_Where the forgotten seraph kings_

_Still plot how God shall die._

_"The wise men know all evil things_

_Under the twisted trees,_

_Where the perverse in pleasure pine_

_And men are weary of green wine_

_And sick of crimson seas._

_"But you and all the kind of Christ_

_Are ignorant and brave,_

_And you have wars you hardly win_

_And souls you hardly save._

_"I tell you naught for your comfort,_

_Yea, naught for your desire,_

_Save that the sky grows darker yet_

_And the sea rises higher._

_"Night shall be thrice night over you,_

_And heaven an iron cope._

_Do you have joy without a cause,_

_Yea, faith without a hope?'"_

When Will awoke, torchlight stung his light-starved eyes. He could hear voices – Jinks and the Sherriff were in the room. His whole upper body burned with pain. But a quiet peace had settled on his heart.


	5. Go Gaily in the Dark

**Awake, Arise**

**Chapter 5: Go Gaily in the Dark**

_**Well, here's the next little installment of putting Will through hell ;-P I promise, Will & Djaq will get to see each other for realsies next chapter :-D**_

* * *

"Well," said the Sheriff in a cheerful tone. "How did your young guest sleep? Hope we were able to make you as _comfortable_as possible. Did you have sweet dreams?"

"I did, in fact."

The Sheriff frowned, then kicked Will in the side with an armored boot. "I can't abide smart talk - didn't any of your friends I've ever hosted down here tell you that?"

Will just looked up at the Sheriff and smiled - mostly to hide the fact that the pain in his side was preventing him from offering another sardonic comment.

The Sheriff went on talking to himself while Jinks hunted around in a pile of cruel-looking instruments in the corner. "Robin Hood's men - all the same, methinks. So brave in the beginning, but, come to think of it, I'm not sure I've had one in here that I haven't been able to turn eventually." He emphasized the last two words with two more kicks, then turned to Jinks. "Hang him up, will you?"

Will found himself suspended from the ceiling once more, higher this time so that his toes could barely reach the floor. The Sheriff slowly pulled on a mail glove with small spikes on the knuckles - enough to draw blood but not do any permanent damage. "But you're one of the special ones, I've noticed. Not like Roy, that poor ignorant sod - imagined himself a real outlaw because he looked good in green and could handle a bow half the time. But you . . ." The Sheriff drew back his fist and punched Will in the mouth - the glove came away bloody. " . . . You're in the Inner Circle. And I'd like to chat about your good friend Robin before we finish."

"Chat all you like. I'm listening." Will immediately regretted the sarcasm when the sharp, heavy glove pounded into his stomach several times. He was fairly sure a rib or two had already given way. What had Djaq said? All he had to do was get to the end of his endurance, and then hold on for a little bit longer. What had Ethelbert said? _Your heart is not your own – your heart is England's. _He closed his eyes and thought of home. Of the smell of wood, the feel of sawdust under his feet, his brother laughing. The Sheriff punched him again and again in the face and side, until Will's body swung limply from hyper-extended ligaments, but the memories held fast in a place that the pain could not yet touch.

"Tell me," said the Sheriff, removing the glove and massaging his hand. "What is an outlaw's price these days? How much does Robin offer for such loyal and stoic service?"

"Nothing."

"My, my, how _does_ he keep you all fed?"

Will spat blood on the Sheriff's shoes. "He doesn't – you do."

Vaisey reared back and struck Will with his bare fist, and Will watched with grim satisfaction as the Sheriff hopped back into a corner to nurse his bruised knuckles. "YOU'RE SMUG NOW!" shouted Vaisey, kicking what looked like a spiked boot across the room. "I am going to break your virtuous little heart. And then I'm going to drag what's left of it outside and feed it to the peasants. Sounds . . . appropriate, don't you think?"

"You can't break my heart. It's not here."

"And where might you fancy it being?"

"It's in Sherwood Forest, under a tree with an arrow carved in its side. It's in the White Horse Vale above Uffington. It's resting on the cliffs at Dover. It's ringing the cathedral bells in York. You will never catch it – because you will never be a large enough man to hold England in your hands."

The Sheriff merely raised an eyebrow, then turned and grinned horribly at Jinks. "They're so _funny_ when their minds start going, aren't they?"

"They is, Milord Sheriff."

"Well, don't want to waste all the fun before he's completely spent. Better get him down from there and get out The Gauntlet. There's still time yet before the afternoon's sports!"

Will barely registered his surroundings as his taxed limbs were released from the chain and he was half-dragged to a chair in the corner of the room. He was concentrating desperately on the sound of Djaq's voice, singing.

_ "The men of the East may spell the stars_  
_And times and triumphs mark,_  
_But the men signed of the cross of Christ_  
_Go gaily in the dark."_

* * *

Djaq rose from her morning prayers and stretched – she was sore all over, but she wasn't sure why. Maybe she had slept on a root or a stone, but all she knew was that it had been an awful, restless night. Much had taken a fever and needed tending. She had finally fallen to sleep when he did in the early morning, only to dream of speaking to Will where he lay chained in the depths of Nottingham Castle. She wished she could remember what she had said to him. Even if their plan went off today – and in her experience they hardly ever did – the chance still loomed that those sleep-trapped moments were the last she would ever have with him.

Robin met her as she got back from camp. "Did you gather the herbs I asked you for?"

"Call it what it is, Robin. The _hemlock_ is in your satchel, as requested."

"Djaq, don't worry. Ethelbert assures me –"

"I _know _what hemlock does, Robin! There are _never_ guarantees."

"Djaq, we discussed this. The only _guaranteed_ time for us to get him out of Nottingham is to grab him from the square this afternoon. And –"

"And the best chance we have of that is if they think he's already dead. You don't need to explain it twice, Robin. I still don't like it."

Allan walked by them, carrying a bucket of water. "If my opinion matters," he said, "which I know it doesn't, I still don't know why we can't nab him in the cells. Or on his way from the cells."

"Besides the fact that he'll be surrounded by guards?" said Robin.

"That's never quite stopped us before," said John from where he sat by Much's bedside.

"We don't have Marian to run inside interference this time. Trust me – we're getting Will back."

Allan poured his bucket into the wash-water, turned it upside down and sat on it. "And what if," he said, "while we're risking our necks gettin' in to Nottingham, they've gone and tortured our location out of 'im? Maybe we rescue Will, and then come back to a camp-full of the Sheriff's men?"

Djaq felt the colour rise in her face. "Will would never – he could never give us up! He would die first!"

"Sometimes it's not that simple, darlin'"

"Will. Is. That. Simple."

"Well, then it's more likely he's already dead. I know those dungeons, love –"

"You may know a lot of things, Allan. But you don't know Will. Not like I do. If anyone could survive down there, he could. He has to." Djaq realised her cheeks were wet. The gang was staring at her in that helpless way men do when confronted with a woman's tears.

Finally Robin spoke. "Djaq is right. We need steady hearts to pull through this, and we can't manage steadiness without a little hope. Don't fear, lads – we're bringing Will back alive if it's the last thing I do."

Another over-bold vow. Djaq shook her head – Robin never listened to her. She couldn't quite imagine the gang pulling through without sorrow of some kind. But hope she might just manage. Just.

* * *

"All I want is your finger on this map – pointing the way to the outlaw's hideaway. You won't even have to speak. Just point." The Sheriff was attempting to make his voice sound patient and gentle, but to Will it had all the sweetness of rotten honey, buzzing with flies.

He was fastened by the wrists and ankles in an overlarge wooden chair. They had placed an evil-looking contraption – which the Sheriff termed The Gauntlet though it looked more like a box - on his left hand. It held his hand and each finger suspended between a series of pins. His carpenter's mind could well guess its use – if he didn't give the Sheriff the answers he wished, each pin could be tightened in such a way as would snap each bone, one by one.

He felt like screaming already.

The Sheriff's voice was a whisper now. "Where. Are. The Outlaws?"

Will closed his eyes. "We move around. I have no idea where they could be at the moment."

"You're lying, Scarlett. Bad for the soul, I hear. Maybe we'd better teach you a lesson."

Will heard it before he felt it – the sickening crack like a dry twig snapping underfoot. The pain traveled up his arm and through his whole body like a bolt of lightning splitting a tree in half. To his surprise, he didn't scream – instead he struggled to draw air into a chest that felt like it had involuntarily contracted, with every other muscle in his body, to half it's normal size. He had barely caught his breath before he heard a second crack.

This time, he screamed.

* * *

Miles away, Djaq was giving instructions to Tad, who had volunteered to stay behind with Much.

"He should sleep for now. I think the worst of the fever broke last night, but if it it's still troubling him when he wakes get him to chew this willow bark." She took a small bottle out of her satchel. " I'll leave the tincture of lavender –"

A sharp pain in her left hand stopped her. She felt the muscles spasm, and she dropped the bottle.

"Djaq, are you alright?" Tad picked up the bottle and handed it back to her.

"Yes . . . Yes. It's nothing . . . I must've slept on my hand wrong last night – now my nerves are punishing me!"

But she could not shake the sense that when she'd dropped the bottle she'd also heard something: far away in her mind, she could swear she had heard Will, crying out in pain.

* * *

_Our minds shall be firmer . . .. _Vaisey's silky, treacherous voice: "Just tell me what I need to know and it will all be over." . . ._Our hearts all the keener . . .._ "No," Will whispered. . . ._Our courage the more . . ._. SNAP. All his limbs trembled with soul-numbing pain. . . . _As our strength dwindles._

The device had cracked all the bones between the second and third knuckles on this left hand. His breath came in ragged gasps. He longed for the relief of unconsciousness but his body refused to give it. Instead he felt aware of everything – stone under his feet, wooden splinters on the chair digging into his ravaged back, sweat dripping into his eyes that he could not wipe away. He couldn't think and yet he _had_ to think, had to keep control of each thought, of each word. He could not allow the truth to slip past his lips in a moment of thoughtless agony. So he reached for every good poem, every good song his mother or Djaq every sang, and tried to fill his aching head with them. He could not allow himself to think of anything else.

The Sheriff noticed Will's lips moving and motioned for Jinks to stop before he tightened the sixth screw. "Trying to get something out, are we?"

" _. . . I am full glad at heart! I shall not go from here. But by the side of my captain, whom I loved so well, I intend to lie."_

Vaisey sighed and motioned to Jinks. Another bone snapped in half. There were tears in Will's eyes now and his breath came in strangled sobs.

"It must be hard, being the strong one," said the Sheriff in Will's ear. "Never allowed to be weak, to cry, to admit when you need help."

"You can't help me."

"Oh, but I can. I can make all this stop."

"Turning me into a traitor . . . is not the same thing as helping me."

"One man's traitor is another man's patriot, Will. But you and I – we're strong enough to see these pitiful titles for what they are – mere words. Words that serve whoever happens to be in power. And I'll leave you to guess which of us has the power at the moment."

"The power to harm . . . the power to kill . . . this is not real power. That is why you will never defeat us."

The Sheriff turned the seventh screw until the bone was just on the verge of snapping. "Well, la-di-dah, aren't we the philosopher! Enlighten me, Oh-Prophet-of-the-Broken-Hand, what is your secret?" He turned the screw the rest of the way and for a few seconds all Will could hear was his own screaming. When the quiet returned, and Will's breathing regulated somewhat, the Sheriff hissed in his ear: "Well? I'm waiting."

"You . . . have the power to kill. But we . . . have the power . . . to die."

The Sheriff laughed, but Will continued. He knew his strength was almost spent, the end of endurance almost come. He only had to hold on a little longer.

"We have the power to die well. England will remember our deaths – but it will forget your life. Robin Hood will inspire men like me to fight men like you . . . forever. Not because I lived, but because I died."

"Don't worry. This afternoon will ensure that." The Sheriff leaned against the cell wall and motioned to Jinks. "Go ahead and break the rest. In the left hand, that is . . . he might want his right later."

Will set his teeth and thought of Djaq.


	6. Heart of Flame Therein

**Sorry for the delay, peeps. My computer was possessed by a demon - but it's better now!**

** I hope my combat choreography passes muster in this bit - I took a stage-combat class a couple years ago, but I'm kinda rusty, so, sorry if the fighting sounds ridiculous!**

**Hope the tiny bit of Will/Djaq we get here is enough to sate some of you - I promise there will be oodles of Will/Djaq Marshmallow Fluff in the next chapter . . . ;-P**

* * *

Robin, John, Allan, and Djaq stood at the edge of the Forest and looked down on Nottingham. The road leading to the gate was crowded with visitors, and beyond them drifted the sound of mummers plying their instruments. They were all four dressed in the black and white habits of the Gilbertine order, and John lead a wagon full of apples from the orchard at St. Giles Abbey. Their weapons were hidden underneath the baskets, but these were a last resort. If the plan went well, no blood would have to be shed and the apple cart would carry Will home before sundown. Djaq tried to keep that image in her head – Will safe and well and under her care. But her mysteriously aching back and hand reminded her of the more-likely reality – that even if all of them made it safely away, there was a chance that Will Scarlett was left broken beyond her power to repair. She prayed it was not so. She prayed that the phantom pain she had been experiencing since the night before could somehow count in Will's favor – that her aching bones would mean that much less measure of pain for him. But her desires could ensure nothing – she could only pray, and walk with the others through Nottingham's black gates along with the disturbingly festive crowd.

* * *

_That on you is fallen the Shadow_  
_And not upon the name,_  
_That though we scatter and though we fly_  
_And you hang over us like the sky_  
_You are more tired of victory_  
_Than we are tired of shame._

Someone was singing from the old, familiar ballad of King Alfred in his ear, but it was not his mother or Djaq this time. Will tried to gather his awareness from the vast internal plains where the winds of pain and fatigue and privation had scattered it. He had been vaguely aware of being dragged from the dungeon, up seemingly-endless stairways and out into the sun. Now he was lying on his back, in the shade, though the orange light filtering through his swollen eyelids made him suspect he was in some kind of tent. The song continued, over the growing buzz of happy voices and music just beyond the tent walls.

_. . . Your lord sits high in the saddle,  
A broken-hearted king,  
But our king Alfred, lost from fame,  
Fallen among foes or bonds of shame,  
In I know not what mean trade or name,  
Has still some song to sing;_

Our monks go robed in rain and snow,  
But the heart of flame therein,  
But you go clothed in feasts and flames,  
When all is ice within . . .

"Come lad," said the voice, finally, "'Tis not your time of dying yet."

"Ethelbert?" Will opened his eyes all the way to find himself alone in a tent with the smiling redhead.

"I wish I could be someone more familiar to you, but I am all that Providence hath provided at the moment."

"Believe me, you're better than certain other options . . . What are we doing here?" Will managed to lift himself up on his right elbow and look around. The tent was empty except for the dentist, but he could see the shadow of several guards surrounding the exterior.

"I believe the Sheriff's plan is to make the two of us fight to the death in Bertha's Circus Maximus."

The cruel inanity of the idea struck Will as incredibly funny, and he laughed despite the crushing pain from his broken ribs. "The Sheriff always was one for a good joke . . . a really, good, sick joke. I can barely hold a sword, much less wield one."

Ethelbert leaned down and offered a hand to Will. "I believe he's sees a kind of poetry in it . . . Can you stand?" Will took the proffered help and after a brief struggle found himself balancing on unsteady feet. Ethelbert slung Will's right arm over his shoulder and helped him find his equilibrium before continuing. "He wanted to know which would die first – the wounded warrior or the hale man who's never held a sword in his life. You have to admit it's an entertaining theoretical problem."

"The Sheriff's always struck me as a more practical type," said Will, trying to take true stock of his body in an effort to refuse his pounding head's insistence that he lie back down and never wake. Considering that every muscle and bone in his upper body was spasming with pain, his legs and feet seemed relatively unscathed. He could even imagine walking if it weren't for the fact that the world spun every time he opened his eyes. He sighed. "I couldn't fight you, Ethelbert. I'd fall on my own sword before I'd allow either you or myself to become a murderer."

"Believe me, Will, that's partially the plan."

"Plan?"

"You didn't imagine that Robin and your friends would just leave you here to die, did you?"

"I don't imagine the Sheriff would forget that either. Robin can only come busting in to save people in the square so many times before he or someone else gets killed . . . what am I saying – Roy already got killed. And Allan's brother."

"But, really, Will – think how impractical falling on one's sword would be in your condition – you've only got one useable upper appendage!"

"Thanks for reminding me." He opened his eyes and tried to get them to focus on something, anything. They came to rest on his swollen, ruined left hand. The fingers were bent and mangled, and though the skin was nowhere broken they had turned a deathlike grayish-purple. Will turned his hand over and noticed something else – the small blue bruise on his palm where he had stabbed himself with an awl the morning before. Something about it made him laugh.

"Something funny?" Ethelbert helped Will over to the center pole of the tent and helped him lean against it while he looked him over.

"Oh, just something a . . . a friend told me yesterday morning. It's nothing."

"You'll see her again, never fear, lad," said Ethelbert. ''You just have to follow my instructions to the letter."

"My life is – literally – yours to command."

Ethelbert clapped him on his uninjured shoulder. "That's the spirit! Now – neither of us is in top fighting condition, so, hopefully a faked pass or two will go unnoticed. But as soon as I can I'm going to bear you to the ground – let me. I'm going to put my hand over your mouth and pretend to smother you – but in actuality I will be placing these in your mouth." Ethelbert produced some small, fern-like leaves.

"Hemlock? So the plan actually _is_ to kill me?"

"Don't be over dramatic. Hold them in your mouth, but don't swallow them. The effects should be swift. You'll lose consciousness, I'll claim victory, and the – ach-hem – local Gilbertine monks will claim your body to be buried at their abbey as they promised your mother long ago. You'll be awake and back in Sherwood before sundown."

"If I wake at all, that is."

"It's a chance, Will. But it's God that holds our fates."

The tent flap was pushed aside, and several guards entered. "Come along, Scarlett. It's time." One of them grabbed Will by his left arm and he had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out. They led him outside, but when Ethelbert tried to follow, they pushed him back.

"Wait!" cried the redhead, "Aren't I –"

"You're to stay here until it's your turn, dentist. Bertha somehow convinced the Sheriff that Mac the Scotsman should get a hack at this one first. Don't worry - if he lives you'll get a pass at him after . . ."

Will tried to dig his heels in, to somehow get back to the tent and palm the hemlock before it was too late, but the hold the guard had on his arm was excruciating. The last thing he saw before the tent-flap closed was Ethelbert's white face.

* * *

Djaq was at the point where if she heard "Summer is a'Comin' In" one more time, she was going to strangle the nearest fiddler with his own bow. The laughter, the music, the too-swift colours of the acrobatic children performing in the ring – it was making her heart ache to have so much happiness around her when she knew that not 10 yards away Will was waiting for his fate in the orange tent across the square.

She looked at Robin, standing beside her with Allan, both trying to look serene and disinterested in the surrounding frivolity, and both failing miserably. Their eyes scanned the crowd and the dais where the Sheriff & Gisbourne sat, their hands gripping weapons barely concealed beneath their cloaks. They looked more like birds of prey than monks.

Suddenly the music faded and the acrobats scattered back to the sidelines. A short, thickly built woman with long gray hair climbed into the ring and raised be-ribboned hands in the air.

'Welcome, welcome, my lords, ladies and gentlefolk of Nottingham. It is my abiding pleasure to present for you all today, a mighty feat of arms! In one corner . . ."

Across the courtyard, Djaq noticed a group of soldiers leaving the orange tent. They were leading a pale, dark-haired man, shirtless, covered in blood. Will. The woman's voice and the rollicksome cheers of the crowd faded away in Djaq's mind. All she heard was her heart pounding and the steps of the soldiers and they dragged Will closer to the arena. Her lips silently formed his name, and as if in answer he looked up. Their eyes met. His already-pale face seemed to grow paler still. She saw his lips move: "Djaq don't." She realized she had been pushing through the crowd in front of her in a vain effort to get closer to him. She stopped, and tried to smile, but she knew her expression must still bear some sign of the horror she felt now that she could see his true condition.

They pushed him up the steps of the arena. On the other side of the woman, a tattooed monster of a swordsman was playing to the crowd, but Djaq barely noted him. Her physician's eye was studying Will and could not help but notice each evident detail of the horrors he'd faced in just one day in the Sheriff's custody. His face was torn and bloodied, his left eye swollen nearly shut, the dark, encircling bruises on his wrists, shoulders, and elbows evidence that he had been hung from a ceiling. The wound in his left shoulder was an inflamed mess, but it was almost inconsequential compared to ugly, bleeding whip-welts that covered his back and sides. Last of all she saw his hand, tucked uselessly against his chest, bruised and mangled and broken in the cruelest fashion. Djaq realized there were tears in her eyes, and that Will was still looking at her – his dark gaze clinging almost desperately to hers.

"Be brave," she whispered.

The plan was already going horribly wrong – she could see Robin and Allan arguing about it in tense whispers out of the corner of her eye. But she couldn't think, somehow, couldn't reason beyond the fact that she was probably going to have to watch Will die, and that Will needed to know that she was thinking of him and only him when the time came.

The gray-haired woman finished her spiel to resounding cheers and stepped out of the ring. One of the guards threw Will a sword. It clattered at his feet. He looked at Djaq and smiled, then bent gingerly to pick it up.

The other swordsman – Djaq vaguely remembered Bertha having called him "Mac" – swung at Will before he even had time to straighten up. But Will was quick – he brought his sword around and stopped Mac's blade mere inches from his face. He drove his head and shoulders into the Scotsman's stomach, causing him to lose his footing. Mac tumbled over, Will uppermost. Will tried to strike at his opponent's face, but his balance was off because of his hand. Mac brought his knee up and tossed Will off with a brutal kick, then leaped to his feet and followed up with a sword-slash that would've taken Will's head off if he hadn't rolled out of the way and tripped Mac at the last minute. As it was the sword grazed his ear, and his hand came away from it bloody as both fighters struggled to their feet. Djaq realized she was biting her bottom lip so hard she had drawn blood herself.

The crowd was cheering. Laughing. And Djaq hated them for it. Will had fought for them, had been willing to give everything for them, and here they were being entertained by the spectacle of his execution. If she trod roughly on a few toes as she edged her way to the front of the crowd, she didn't regret it.

The swordsmen were circling each other now, testing each other's skills. Will was a clever and quick fighter, even one-handed, but the exertion was wearing him down twice as fast as his opponent. On the third or fourth pass, Mac's sword slipped past his guard and sliced a deep, bloody furrow in Will's chest. He followed through and slammed his pommel into the wound, and then into Will's face. Will fell, his sword falling from his hand. Mac raised his arm for the fatal blow. Will turned his face slightly and locked eyes with Djaq. Her world seemed to spin – she couldn't remember when she had last taken a breath.

At the last possible second, Will sat up and punched Mac in the groin, taking the sword-blow across his back instead of into his chest. Mac collapsed. Will grabbed his sword and smashed the pommel into Mac's face again and again, until it was evident that the Scots swordsman would not be rising to fight again for many a good hour.

The crowd's cheers were deafening. Djaq could barely see through the tears in her eyes, though she could feel Allan and Robin clapping her on the back with relief and joy. Will got slowly to his feet, fresh blood streaming from his ear, chest, and back. Bertha and the acrobats busied themselves carrying Mac's huge body out of the ring. The Sheriff stood and motioned for the crowd to be quiet.

"Well done, Scarlett, well done," said the Sheriff with a sarcastic clap of the hands. "I thought for a moment there that Robin Hood was going to have to lose another man to his own inaction. Really seems he's left you in the lurch this time."

Will leaned against one of the ring's posts and grinned. "Robin simply didn't want to deprive me of the chance of humiliating you." The crowd laughed and jeered as Vaisey turned beet red.

"Oh, there's still plenty of time for that, Scarlett. Plenty of time for that . . ." he said quietly, then he turned and shouted over his shoulder, "Bring out the surgeon!"

* * *

Will watched as they dragged a theatrically-struggling Ethelbert from the tent. He wondered what the effect of hemlock would feel like … wondered whether a swift death at the hands of the Scotsman would not have been preferable to hemlock's icy fingers freezing his blood. His eyes sought the crowd again for Djaq – she was standing right at the edge of the arena, fixing the Sheriff with a hateful glare. Then she looked back at him, attempting to smile past the worry apparent in her eyes. Something about the sideways grin captured him – for a moment all his pain had faded away and the noise and colour of Nottingham receded and it was just the two of them, standing together in Sherwood Forest laughing at some unspoken joke that none of the others would understand.

The Sheriff's voice brought him back to reality. "Which will conquer?" he shouted to the crowd. "The warrior or the dentist? Place your bets now, ladies and gents, while the odds are good! Any last words, gentlemen?"

Will turned and faced the Sheriff. "This man's blood will be on your head, not mine, Vaisey." The crowd hushed – even gamblers loved a good rebellious speech now and then, and he needed to make this one memorable. "You are a thief, a traitor, and as cruel a tyrant to darken England's soil with the blood of good men as this land has ever seen." Will raised his sword. "For God, King Richard, and Robin Hood!"

Ethelbert shrugged, then raised his sword above his head as well. "For God, King Richard, and Robin Hood!"

The two fighters saluted each other. It was obvious that Ethelbert had no idea what to do with his sword - he was gripping it in both hands and wielding it like a cudgel – but he didn't lack enthusiasm. He took a few wide sweeps at Will's head that were easily avoided, but Will guessed his next move badly and Ethelbert ended up ramming the hilt of his sword into Will's stomach. Will stumbled backward, glaring at Ethelbert and trying to breathe. Ethelbert mouthed "sorry," following up with an overhead blow that was easily blocked.

Will decided it was his turn to go on the offensive. His attacks were wide and, he thought, slow – but Ethelbert's expression as he tried desperately to block them made Will want to laugh out loud. This wouldn't do. It was time to end this.

Will sighed, backed off, and gave a short nod to his opponent. Ethelbert smiled in a way that did not comfort Will as he came running at him, waving his sword like a lunatic. Will feebly blocked the first two thrusts, dropped his sword at the third parry, then fell backwards and let Ethelbert land on top of him.

"Please don't actually kill me," Will whispered as Ethelbert tried to position himself to make it look like he was holding Will down without sitting on Will's shattered ribs.

"I'll do my best," whispered the dentist. His hand went over Will's mouth and nose, and Will felt the bitter hemlock slip between his teeth and underneath his tongue. Ethelbert's hands went to Will's throat, and Will struck out ineffectively with his fists a few times, trying to make the choking look convincing.

Suddenly, he didn't have to fake it. His chest was burning, but his limbs felt encased in ice. His lungs were straining to draw in air like he was being crushed beneath a boulder. He couldn't hear. Everything around him seemed clouded in thick black smoke. He turned his head away from Ethelbert, desperate to see Djaq one more time before the night took him. There she was – not two feet from him on the edge of the arena. She was crying.

"Don't cry," he whispered. Then his breath stopped.

* * *

As the sun set, the townspeople of Nottingham watched as four Gilbertine monks passed through the marketplace, their cart laden with empty apple bushels and the broken body of the handsome young man who had fought so well in the Circus that afternoon.

"Pity about tha' boy," said Mary the Fishmonger's wife to the Carpenter.

"Aye. Brave 'e was," said the Carpenter. "Good mouth on 'im to. Lor' bless me, but I wouldn't mind seein' the Sheriff taken down a peg 'r two more often."

"But wasn't he one of Robin Hood's men? Why didn't he come to save him, mum?" said the Fishmonger's boy, clinging to his mother's apron.

"All great men 'ave their reasons . . . 's almost loik he meant to go ter way 'e did. Woulda been a pity fer him to slay tha' poor sap o' a surgeon. Wot a useless feller 'e turned out to be."

"Kind o' the Sheriff to let the surgeon go arfterwards," said the Carpenter. "Shows 'e ain't completely 'eartless."

"Did ye see the state tha' boy was in? Broken like threshed grain." said the Fishwife. "That Surgeon's a bloody butcher an' the Sheriff's an 'eartless old wolf an' the sooner King Richard returns and chops off 'is head the better, I say."

"Not so loud, Mary!" hissed the Carpenter.

"Oh, fiddle-di-dee, Tom – yor a great sheep an' ye know it. Little Yrchard an' I are to the Church to light a candle fer tha' young man's soul. Good e'en to ye!"

The Fishwife and her son hurried off down a side-street in the direction of St. Edmund's. Tom went back to work, looking up only once to watch a train of riders lead by Guy of Gisbourne himself as they rode off through the gates in the same direction the Rufford monks had taken.

* * *

**What did y'all think of the fights? Too long? Too short? Hard to follow? Too easy? Let me know in a review!**

**Were y'all expecting a great big melee in the square? I suppose I decided for a "quieter" escape plan than they usually go for because, watching the show, I felt the whole "Robin-Hood-drops-into-the-square-and-miraculously-saves-the-day-at-the-last-minute" thing was getting a little old. What do you think?**

**The next chapter should be the last, methinks. Unless I have so much fun writing fluffiness that it ends up two chapters . . . we'll see ;-P**


	7. The Strength of All Good Men

**HI guys! I'm soooo sorry about the long wait for this chapter. I admit, my last two weekend were pretty taken-up with drooling over a certain guy whose name begins with Tom and ends with Hiddleston as he performed in my ABSOLUTE FAVOURITE SHAKESPEARE PLAYS OF ALL TIME (not to mention our very own Joe Armstrong and Harry Lloyd! Weren't they fantastic!). And then my computer got possessed by a demon and needed to go to the hospital all week, and I was reduced to writing the last half of this chapter out longhand on a legal pad I stole from work . . .. I typed it up on my roommates computer this morning, and, so, here it is - though I warn you that, depending on when I get my computer back, the next-and-final chapter may take just as long to post :-(**

**So here we are. Get ready for some tragical bits, a good bit of fluff, and even a tiny little Will/Allan bit for all you crazy shippers out there . . . Enjoy!**

* * *

His heart had stopped. She knew it. She'd been holding her fingers on the cold skin of Will's neck for what felt like hours, and she could not detect the faintest hum of blood. Still she rubbed his limbs and sprinkled water on his face and pounded her palm into his chest, trying to incite the life she feared had already fled. But it was so dark in Sherwood at night. Maybe she had missed something.

"Hold the torch closer, Allan!"

"Djaq, if I hold it any closer, I'm goin' to set the cart on fire. Why don't you just leave him and walk for a bit? Clear your head. There's nothin' you or any of us can do now. He's –"

"Don't. Say it."

Allan must've seen something dangerous in her eyes, because he backed off, along with the torch. Djaq was left with only the tree-filtered moonlight to see by, but silent tears soon completely blinded her. She lay down next to Will, took his right hand in hers, and whispered in his ear.

"Come on, Will. You need to wake up. Please?"

His silence was an answer she didn't want to hear.

"You have to be alive, Will Scarlett. Because I love you and if you die you'll never know it."

Quiet. The creak of the cart's wheels. Robin and Allan's soft tread. Djaq's shuddering breaths as she tried to resist the urge to cry were the loudest thing in the vicinity.

Suddenly, Robin stopped and held up his hand. He and Allan's eyes met and they both quietly slipped their bows off their shoulders. John stood up in the front of the cart, gripping his quarterstaff. Djaq's ears became attuned to every whisper in the surrounding woods. Before long, she heard it – the soft tread of a dozen-or-so feet approaching from north of the trail. She quietly drew her sword and stood over Will, a grim smile on her face. The irony of being completely ready to die defending a corpse did not escape her – it only made her yearn all the more for the fire of battle.

She could barely see in the tree-clouded moonlight, but she watched Robin as he stood, bow at the ready, listening intently for the first clue of a target.

"Come on now, you know we've heard you!" shouted Robin to the darkness. "You have two choices. Either you return back to that nursemaid you call a Sheriff and let us go on our peaceful way, or I swear on the Rood of Jesu none of you will leave this forest alive."

"We know it's you, Robin," came Gisbourne's voice. "The Sheriff sends me to follow some monks and instead I get the Hood himself! Just throw down your arms – there doesn't need to be any bloodshed."

"Oh, yes?" said Robin, adjusting his aim. "Tell that to my friend Will."

The arrow flew into the surrounding night, and Gisbourne's immediate scream of pain evidenced Robin's skill.

The following moments were a confusion of sound and movement as the dark-clad Sheriff's-men charged down upon them; but to Djaq the world condensed into a single, simple, imperative - kill anyone who approached the cart.

الله أكبر" she screamed as her sword came down on one black helmet after another. She could hear the twang of Robin's and Allan's bows, and the crack of bones beneath the weight of John's quarterstaff, but above all she was aware of Will's body below her, depending on her for this one, last service.

The sound of the fighting seemed to grow less after a few minutes, but she could still see three of the Sheriff's men headed for her and Will. She brought down the first with a sweeping blow to the head, then she dropped into a crouch and let the backswing of her sword bite deep into the neck of the second soldier. But she could not bring her sword around fast enough to ward-off the blow of the third, and the edge of his sword sliced into the side of her calf just below her right knee. Djaq lost her balance and fell over on top of Will, pinning his left hand beneath her.

Will gasped. His eyes shot open. Djaq was so startled she almost forgot where she was. Will, alive! Breathing! His harsh coughing and wild, frightened eyes distracted the doctor in her as their adversary jumped up into the cart. She put a reassuring hand on his chest, then checked his pulse. His heartbeat was too fast, and rather uneven, but it was there! Djaq felt like singing, like dancing . . .

The flash of steel above them both brought her back to the present struggle - she met the descending sword with her own just seconds before it crushed Will's head. She was still on her back, however, and the Sheriff's man was stronger than she was. Inch by inch his blade sank towards them.

There was a sharp hiss, a cough, and the pressure on Djaq's sword lessened considerably. The soldier fell to the side and flipped over the side of the cart, revealing a tall, redheaded man in fine merchant's clothes. He held a bloody dagger in his hand.

"Ethelbert?"

"One and the same!" he said shakily, dropping the knife like it was a live snake. He leaned against the side of the cart and sank slowly to a seated position. "I never, ever, want to do anything like that. Ever. Again . . ."

Will hissed through clenched teeth. Djaq realized she was still lying on his injured arm and rolled off, so horrified that she apologized in Arabic. "أنا آسف جدا! يرجى أن يغفر لي!"

Will took a long, shuddering breath. "Djaq? Is that you? Where are . . . how . . .?"

"Peace, Will, peace. You're safe . . . we're safe. Try and sleep."

Allan and Robin and John stumbled back into the clearing after chasing Gisbourne and the other survivors off into the woods, and all gathered around the cart to greet their resurrected friend.

"Ethelbert!" said Allan. "Where did you come from?"

"Nottingham – where else? It's not my fault the Sheriff banished me from the fortress at the same time he sent Gisbourne to follow you . . . I merely followed Gisbourne. Couldn't let all my work and plans go to waste, could I?"

"Will," said Robin, "Djaq told me yesterday that as soon as I got you back she was going to chop my head off."

"Well," said Will, by the look on his face still trying to make out exactly where he was and what was happening, "can you get me . . . safely back to camp first?"

"We'll be back before you can say 'The Sheriff's a Saracen,'" said John, climbing up to the front of the cart. Robin and Allan moved to either side, eyes vigilant for a renewed attack.

"The Sheriff's a Saracen," whispered Will, already drifting off. Djaq sat down next to Will and took his right hand in hers. She looked over at surgeon, sitting pale-faced and wide-eyed across from her.

"Thank you, Ethelbert, for everything."

"My pleasure . . . really." Something in the surgeon's voice made Djaq give him a second look. He was holding his left side and in a glint of moonlight she caught sight of the red stain on his hand.

"Ethelbert, are you hurt?"

"Well . . ." He seemed to be struggling to stay awake. "I suppose when a blundering fool like me runs into the middle of a battle one can't but expect to get a scratch or twain . . ."

Djaq left Will's side and went to examine the Surgeon. She could barely see, but when she put her hand to the wound she could feel blood seep past her fingers at an alarming rate. She knew he hadn't enough blood in him to last 'til she could sew him up. Djaq looked up into the Surgeon's eyes. He was smiling.

"It's alright, miss. No need to lie. I may be a dentist, but I'm surgeon enough to know when it's time to pay Peter."

Djaq couldn't say anything. She'd known this man for less than a day and already she owed him her life and happiness. Now all she could do for him was help him die. She eased him onto his back and put pressure on the wound, but his breathing was already beginning to slow.

"I'm glad . . . so glad . . ." he whispered.

"Glad, sir?" It took all her strength to keep her voice from cracking with tears.

"A whole life of . . . pulling teeth. 'Yes, milords' and 'No, sirs' and 'Right away, miladies.' The only days of my life that really _mattered_ were the last two. But . . . I think . . . they mattered enough . . ."

"Ethelbert – I've only known you for one day. And I can already tell that every day of your life mattered. Every single one."

He smiled, and reached up to put his hand on the side of her face. "Will is . . . very blessed. Take good care of him? Tell him . . . he isn't to blame himself. Doctor's . . . orders . . ."

His hand fell from her face, and he began to whisper. She bent very close to hear him but could only catch the very last words, which she didn't understand at all.

" _. . ._ _Yet by God's death the stars shall stand . . . And the small apples . . . grow . . ."_

Ethelbert's body shuddered, then was still.

* * *

_Awake, arise, you drowsy sleeper,_

_Awake, arise, it's almost day,_

_For here I stand your own true lover_

_Awake, arise, come and go with me._

Will awoke to the world in bits and pieces. First he was aware of sunlight and warmth and Djaq singing – it could've been any normal morning. With awareness, however, came loud, searing memories of the last two days – pain, fatigue, fear, darkness. He seemed detached from them, like he was waking from a long and detailed nightmare. His attention retreated from the dark images and came around to rest on Djaq's song in his ears and the morning light on his face.

_Oh, I can't go and ask my father,_

_He is on his bed of rest_

_And by his side there lies a weapon_

_For to kill the one that I love best . . ._

The thing that brought him from drowsy reflection into awareness of his body was an itch - a hot, persistent itch all through his shoulder and down his back. As anyone naturally might he tried to shift, to reach his arm around and scratch at it; and that was when the pain that had been lying peacefully dormant in all his limbs woke with fiery insistence. Everything ached – a river of pain running from his head to his feet, with whirlpools concentrating discomfort in his hand and side and back. His mouth and throat felt as dry as sandpaper, and the bitter aftertaste of the hemlock sat heavy on his tongue. Will must have made some sound because the singing stopped.

He opened his eyes, and for one moment all he saw was Djaq: her beautiful lips pursed in the way they always did when she was worried, her perfect black eyes shrouded beneath furrowed brows.

"Hello," Will tried to say. What came out sounded more like a frog clearing its throat.

Djaq smiled, though Will caught a sadness in her expression right away.

"Oh, Will, I'm sorry if I woke you."

"Nice to see you, too," Will croaked, trying to grin.

"Oh, don't be a boggle-bait!" she said, holding a cup of water to his lips. Will sucked greedily at the cool, clean river water, and turned plaintive eyes to Djaq when she took the cup away.

"Not too much right away – you know that!" She put the cup down and took his right hand in both of hers. "I'm so glad you're up, and here, and in your right mind. But I wanted you to rest for as long as you could, because now comes the hard part."

"And that is?"

"The difficult and painful process of healing you."

Will sighed. "I'm sorry. I suppose I'm going to be a bit of a nuisance to you all for a while."

She laughed at him. "I didn't mean difficult and painful for _us_, Will Scarlett!" She stood up and walked across to the cooking fire to stir the pungent-smelling pot that bubbled over it. Will noticed with alarm that she was walking with a limp, and that blood stained her hose below her right knee.

"Djaq, are you alright?" Instinct caused him to try and sit up, to get out of bed and lead her to a chair and take a look at the wound himself; but he had only moved a few inches before his body reminded him of its condition. He felt almost as if he had been pressed back into his bed under a weight of hot stones.

She turned and frowned at him. "Don't you dare move, William! I'm perfectly fine – it's just a little cut. One could hardly expect to live through a battle of 3-to-1 odds without one."

"Funny," said Will, raising an eyebrow – the first painless movement he had accomplished since he awoke. "I seem to remember a certain Saracen telling me the other day that 'Even the smallest of wounds can fester if they're not treated properly . . ."

Djaq made a face. "Of the two of us, which one is has medical training?"

Will stuck his tongue out at her, but Djaq continued. "And which of us is the one so covered in possibly contaminated wounds that he can scarcely move?"

She poured the contents of the pot into a bowl and brought it over. It was evident to Will that her leg was quite painful to her; but as he was incapable of anything but verbal persuasion – and still little capable of that – he kept his peace.

The bowl in Djaq's hand smelled of marigolds and lavender over the stronger essence of tallow and turpentine oil. She poured an amount of it into the bucket of water beside Will's bed and wrung-out a cloth in a the mixture. Very gently, she began cleaning the sword-cut on the side of his face.

"Ouch!" Will yelped, though he was almost glad of the pain. It helped distract from the deep throbbing in his hand that crashed up his arm every few seconds.

"I'm sorry, Will . . . this is the easy part."

"Believe me, I know." The ache in his hand was becoming more agonizing by the minute, but Will didn't say anything. Djaq needed to concentrate on one thing at a time. But she was a healer – the next time a shiver of pain sent a spasm up his arm, she stopped her work and looked Will in the face.

"I'm sorry your hand is paining you. I'm waiting until the others get back before we set it. I'll need their help to . . . to hold you still." Will could sense an agony of dread behind her words.

"Couldn't we . . . just . . . cut the hand off?" he said with a wink. "So simple for everyone!"

She shook her head and leaned down to kiss him on the forehead. Will wondered whether she could see him blush underneath all the bruises. "It's simple for everyone," Djaq said, "except for those of us who want to see you heal from this, completely and utterly. We're being entirely selfish in the matter – what would we do without our carpenter?"

"You know there's still a good chance it's crippled for life anyway."

"There's a chance. But God holds our fates."

The familiar phrase brought the memory of a happy, redheaded face into Will's mind.

"Djaq? Whatever happened to Ethelbert? Did the Sheriff let him off alright?"

She sighed deeply and sat back on her stool. "Will, I . . . he . . ." She couldn't seem to look him in the eyes. Will took a deep breath, steeling himself for bad news.

"Did the Sheriff execute him?"

"No. No . . . the Sheriff let him go."

"Well, then?"

"Will, do you remember last night? When you woke in the forest?"

Will remembered a confusion of pain and voices. "Not much."

"We were attacked by Gisbourne and the Sheriff's men. Ethelbert had followed them to us, and . . . he was badly wounded in the battle. I don't know how, but he still managed to save both our lives before collapsing. Then he . . . he died. Not long after you woke up." Djaq shook her head to clear her eyes of tears. "There was too much bleeding . . . nothing I could do. That's where Robin and the rest are right now – they've taken him to Rufford Abbey to be buried."

Will was quiet for a long while. He almost didn't feel the succession of sharp stings as Djaq closed the wound in his chest with a needle and thread. It seemed a proper death for a man who had lived so quietly and yet whose words held so much hope and courage. Will wondered if Ethelbert of Alfstane had any family, or whether a ragged band of outlaws in Sherwood would be the only men to miss him or remember him while at prayer.

"There ought to be a ballad," said Will, finally. "Something to pass down. He had ought to be remembered."

"You and I can come up with something," said Djaq. "Now hold still while I look at your shoulder. I wish that -"

She was interrupted by the sound of voices carrying through the trees.

". . . so we'll be sending you off to Scarborough, Tad, the moment I can spare a man," came Robin's voice, "but with Will & Much laid up I probably can't spare these two layabouts before a week at least. Probably wise for you to lay low anyway."

"I don't mind," said Tad. "If ye've anythin' that needs smithin' in the meanwhile I hope I can be a help to you."

The rest of the gang appeared above the edge of the hollow. Will assummed they'd left the borrowed cart and horse at the Abbey, for John was carrying Much on his back. A small knot of anxiety that Will had not even realized he had been carrying released itself in his chest at the sight of their chatty cook, alive and well-enough for the circumstances.

Allan, Tad, and Robin hurried down to the bedside when they saw that Will was awake.

"Well, there's our local lazybones," said Robin, "awake at last! What say you, Scarlett, do we get to keep our head!"

"For now," said Will through gritted teeth as Djaq explored the inflamed arrow-wound in his shoulder. "But only until I'm strong enough to chop it off myself."

"I'll hold him down for you," said Allan, kneeling beside Will's bed. "Knew you'd make it. Didn't I tell you he'd make it, Djaq?"

Djaq smirked at him. "You're a liar, and a bad one at that, Allan a Dale. Now sit you here - you too, Tad - and help me lift him. I need to examine his back . . . Careful of his hand . . ."

For the first time that morning Will thought to be ashamed of his weakness. Here was Allan, strong and hale, able to help Djaq whenever she needed it . . . and there he lay, helpless as a child for who could tell how long . . .

All thoughts of jealousy, however, fled in the wake of agony as the innumerable cuts on his back were disturbed when they they lifted him. The ointment Djaq applied felt like fresh fire being rubbed into his skin with sandpaper. Allan was sitting to his right, supporting him by both shoulders, and Will let his head rest on his friend's chest, muffling his tormented groans in the folds of Allan's cloak.

"You're bein' right brave, Will," said Allan. "Almost done. Our Saracen has a deft hand . . ."

It seemed an eternity to Will as Djaq finished washing and dressing his back and shoulder, wrapping the bandages tight around his waist to support his broken ribs. The longer the process went on the more exhausted Will felt, Allan's strong grip the only thing keeping him upright.

"Hey, Will," said Allan quietly. "I'm . . . I'm sorry about your red-headed friend. His plan was a good'n. I'm sure my plan would've gotten us all killed."

Will looked up at Allan with a tired grin. "Allan, isn't that _always_ your plan?"

Allan rolled his eyes. "You know, one of these times, we're just going to leave you and your smart tongue in the dungeon."

"Alright," said Djaq. "That's done. We'll let you rest for a bit, get a little more water and food in you, then we can look at your hand."

"Couldn't we just . . .get it over with?" said Will as Allan and Tad gingerly laid him back on his pillow.

"Well, Will Scarlett - _I_ might be tired too, you know . . . " Her smile told him she didn't really mean to guilt him, but Will felt miserable as he watched her limp over to Much's bed. He wanted more than anything for her to lie down and put her leg up. He wanted to make her supper and share a cup of wine with her and then watch her drift off into long-deserved rest. Instead, he knew, she would check on Much and then maybe allow herself a minute to nibble a piece of bread and then she would be back by his side, tireless in her attentions.

"What blessings to have so gifted a healer among you," said Tad.

"Aye," said Will. "I only wish she had _less_ work to do around here. We're a miserable bundle of arrow targets for a lady such as herself to care for."

"Somehow, I don't think she minds," said Tad with a wink. "I'm glad she pulled you through it. I would've gone to my grave with regret if I hadn't had a chance to thank you."

"'Twas Robin more than myself. I just picked a lock."

"You picked a lock when any other man alive would've run to save his own skin. I am ever in your debt."

"Well," said Will, grimacing as he tried unsuccessfully to find a more comfortable way to lie, "next time I may give my skin a little more thought."

His hand spasmed suddenly, causing his limbs a shiver of pain. "Do you want me to call her over to you," asked Tad, concerned.

"No. No. I can bear it for a while longer if it means she can take her rest for a while. Not like it will hurt much _less_ once she splints it anyway."

"I'll get you some more water, anyhow," said Tad.

Will watched Tad walk down to the rest as they stood around the fire, laughing one and all at some joke Allan had just told, then allowed himself to look at his hand for the first time since he'd awoken. It was bruised black and purple and the fingers were bent in grotesquely crooked shapes. He admitted to himself that he had little hope of his hand's recovery. He would be reduced to a one-handed carpenter, like his father. He would probably have to go back to Scarborough with Tad, forced to depend on the sweat of healthier men for his bread. The thought turned his stomach. The dark bent of his thoughts blackened the air around him, 'til everything seemed dim and filled with nothing but discomfort and disappointment. For some moments he seemed back in the Sherrif's dungeons - trapped inside himself by weakness and pain.

"_Remember, Will – you need not rely on your own strength alone. Remember the strength of God and of all good men." _The words echoed in Will's mind as they had echoed on the dungeons stones the first time Ethelbert had uttered them. Will had supposed then that Ethelbert had meant strength to withstand the coming torture. But the thought occurred to him that such things had to be endured long after they were over, and the need for courage did not fade just because the crisis was past. He closed his eyes and tried to steel himself for the coming physical and mental struggles just as he had prepared to fight the Sherriff's men before.

"My name is Will Scarlett," he whispered to himself. "I am Robin Hood's man. And I will not despair without a fight."

* * *

**Sooo, yes. Sorry if y'all really liked Ethelbert. I suppose the part of me that's so much better at writing torture than fluff just couldn't let ALL my characters have a happy ending. It would've been unseemly . . . ;-P Hope the fluff was up to snuff - I REALLY don't feel as competant writing it as I do the darker stuff. Points if you spotted the sentence that really was a horrible double-entendre - I decided to be evil and leave it in instead of changing the wording (HINT - it was during the fight) Please do review - with all these computer troubles, I need all the encouragement I can get!**


	8. Braver Than You Think

**She's aaalllliiiiivvvveeee! **

**First of all, I am SO SO SO SORRY that this final chapter update took SO LONG TO FINISH! I do have a good excuse, but it involves things like Living History and wool and silk and battling a ballgown and an 1860s mourning outfit into submission. I'll try and post a link to some pictures so that you'll know I'm not lying :-P My tumblr handle is the same as my username here, so you can pop over there to see some of the pics if you wish!**

**Anyway, thank you all sooo much for staying with me through this story. I really enjoyed writing it and I'm very happy that y'all have enjoyed reading it. Nothing much but fluff happens in this chapter, but I'm so happy to finally finish this story fluff was all I could manage! (For all of you Hiddles fans out there, keep an eye out for my upcoming Capt. Nichols/War Horse fic. COMPLETED story to be posted within the week!)(I wouldn't let myself post it before I'd finished this one - I have some semblance of honor, you know ;-P**

* * *

She was halfway between Much's bed and Will's when her leg gave out. One moment she was hobbling along as efficiently as could possibly be managed on lacerated ligaments, she thought, the next she was ignobly splayed on her hands and knees, surrounded by a cacophony of unwanted masculine attention.

"Djaq? Djaq!"

"God, girl, are ye alright?"

"Let me look at it . . ."

"Need any help to carry her?"

"Told you she'd overworked 'erself!"

Above all she heard Will's voice, "Would someone please just make her _lie down?_"

She felt Allan's arms around her, readying to lift her, but she smacked him away.

"I'm not a cripple, for mercy's sake, Allan! Just, someone lend me a hand up? I am perfectly capable of walking –"

"Short distances . . ." said Robin quietly, catching Djaq's eye with a knowing gaze. He stepped forward, offering his hand to her. "Come on, lads, give the lady room to breathe. Go back to whatever mischief you were up to – our Surgeon is perfectly capable of caring for herself." She took his arm and hoisted herself up off the ground, glad that Robin held is arm out in such a way as to belie how much help she needed walking to the chair next to where Will lay.

Djaq's face was pink with embarrassment as her patient reached over and took her hand.

"Djaq, would you _please_ take care of your leg before you think for one more second about me?"

Will eyes, red with weariness, did more pleading than his words could ever accomplish. Robin knelt next to her and put a careful hand on the injured knee.

"Let an old warrior take a look at the wound? Much and I have done our share of healing as well as taking life in the Holy Land."

Djaq sighed. She knew Will's hand was in desperate need of attention, before the broken bones healed in place. But it was a delicate operation to re-set them properly, and she knew she couldn't accomplish it while distracted or weakened. She nodded at Robin.

"Very well. Everything you need is in my box there."

Robin unlaced her hose up to her knee and folded it back, revealing an ugly jagged wound, deep enough to need stiching. He looked up at her.

"If _this_ 'is nothing,' I'd hate to see what you consider a 'real' wound."

Djaq smiled. "Well, Master Volunteered-to-be-the-Sherriff's-Punching-Bag over here might qualify."

Will squeezed her hand. "I hardly volunteered," he said with a sideways grin at Robin. "I was just following _orders._"

"Oh, that's right," said Djaq. "Robin still owes me his –" She took a sharp breath as Robin began to stich the wound closed. Will's grip on her hand tightened. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, then smiled reassuringly at Will. " . . . Still owes me his head on a platter."

"Couldn't we go for something a little less drastic?" asked Robin as he tied off the stitching. "Something a little more . . . ceremonial?"

"Such as?"

"I'll buy you a new set of surgery knives?"

"And what is wrong with my old ones? Tell me you haven't been using them for throwing knives again."

"A new gown?"

"What would I do with a new gown, you dunderhead?!"

"I'll do dishes for a week."

"A year."

"Six months."

"Deal."

"Aaand, I'm done," said Robin, tying the bandage in a neat bow and meandering back towards the kitchen. "No need to thank me – Call if you need anything. I'll just be down here, drowning in the dishwater . . ."

Djaq eyed the bandage with a practiced Surgeon's eye, then looked back at Will. "You're turn."

"Finally," said Will with a tired wink.

"I'll go fetch Allan and John to assist." Djaq tried to stand up, but Will kept a tight grip on her hand.

"Djaq . . . before that . . . I just – I want you to know . . ." As usual, his eyes expressed so much more than his tongue seemed capable of. She smiled. Would he finally say what both of them had seemed incapable of putting into words since the first day they'd met?

"Yes?"

"Um . . . I just . . . don't listen to anything I might say. When you're setting my hand. I don't want you to be afraid to do what you have to do."

Djaq bit her lip and tried to keep smiling. "Will, you do exactly what you have to to get through the next few minutes. It's going to be torture – but I swear I'll go as fast as I can without harming your hand. I'm so, so sorry that it needs to be done at all."

"I know."

Djaq tried to drag her feet going to fetch the others – but all two soon her world was contracted to Will's bed, Allan and John holding him down by the shoulders, Tad at his feet holding down his legs. She took one look at his bold, grey eyes, and then she forced her world to contract even more – down to his hand and his hand alone.

When the screaming started, she tried to imagine that it was the Sheriff she was hurting.

* * *

"Will? WILL? For goodness sake, you know I'm going to find you eventually!"

Djaq's voice echoed from tree to tree like a mockingbird call. Will slid a little further back into his hiding place beneath the moss-hung roots of a giant pine. He knew he was acting like a child, but somehow he couldn't yet bear to face what might or might not be left of his hand once the splints were removed.

It had been six weeks since that horrible afternoon when Djaq had set his bones. He wasn't sure who had been crying harder when it was all over, him or his lovely surgeon. The rest of his body had healed slowly but steadily – his back had scarred over, his ribs had knit, his shoulder had nearly returned to full use. All that remained was to see what was left of his hand. He wished she had just amputated it when he had given her the chance – it would have been less painful for everyone.

"There you are, you goose!" The hanging of moss and ivy was pulled back, revealing Djaq's sad, sideways smile. "You could face the full force of the Sherriff's wrath, but you'd run and hide from a surgeon?"

"Couldn't we just leave it . . . I mean, what's another week or so in splints?"

"Will, I explained this to you yesterday. If it _is_ crippled, the longer you leave it the weaker it gets. If we take it off now and it hasn't healed correctly, there's still a chance you could regain some use if you start working at it right away."

She climbed past the overgrowth and sat down beside him, sliding the sling off his shoulder and revealing his splinted hand.

"But –"

"Come now, Will. If the past few weeks have proved anything, they prove that you are braver than you think you are."

Will took a deep breath and nodded. "Very well, then."

Slowly and ever-so carefully, Djaq cut into the bandages that held the splints together. One by one the stiff pieces of metal and wood she had used fell to the ground, revealing a hand that, but for a few stubborn and yellowing bruises, looked almost normal.

"It will be very, very stiff and weak at first. Remember you haven't used those muscles for a while."

Will eyed his hand skeptically, afraid to try, afraid not to try. Djaq took his hand in hers, exploring his fingers with a deft skill.

"The bones feel straight enough, methinks. Now try and squeeze my hand."

For a moment it felt too odd to really hurt, like he was trying to move someone else's hand with only his mind. Then the nerves seemed to remember their old power and his fingers curled in slightly. It was painful, but only in the way that stretching is painful when one has lain too long a-bed. Inch by inch the fingers moved until Djaq's hand was closed in his.

Will gave a short, surprised laugh. Djaq chuckled. "Never doubt me again, Scarlett! If you exercise it regularly I think it will be as good as new in another month! Now will you come out this hole? Your hand hasn't seen the light of day in six weeks!"

Will crawled out after her as she skipped along the dry streambed, strewn with early October leaves. "You'd think you were the one who was not to end a cripple!" Will called to her as she gaily swung around the trunk of a young birch tree at the edge of a clearing.

"I am!" she said, laughing. "At least, I would have felt like one if I had ruined your hand forever."

"Now who's the goose?" he said, catching up to her. "Are you forgetting the Sherriff's to blame in this whole thing?"

"No. But a surgeon somehow feels responsible all the same." She took his hand and rubbed it affectionately. "I could feel it, you know. When they were hurting you. The hand especially. Robin and Allan would be happy to tell you all the things I dropped and broke over those few days. I think it got worse after I set your hand. Couldn't do anything two-handed for a week."

"Oh, Djaq, you wonderful little soul." He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. "I am so sorry."

"Sometimes it is a mercy of Allah to let us bear the pain of others," she said. "It teaches us how to love."

The light in the clearing, sparkling on her hair and in her eyes reminded him of his dungeon dreams.

"I think the thought of you was the one thing that kept me sane through it all," said, taking both her hands in his. For one moment Will thought that perhaps he could, in one brave, tumbling second, uncover all the feelings he had hidden away for so many months. But his lips still refused to form the words. Perhaps they needed as much exercise in love-making as his hand was going to need in carpentry. But still Djaq smiled up at him, as if she understood everything he had meant to say but couldn't yet.

"I've come up with the beginning of The Ballad of Ethelbert," she said, backing away.

"Oh?"

"_Sir Ethelbert was a valiant knight,_

_Fa di la di la di lee,_

_With the tools of a dentist he went to fight,_

_Fa di la di la di lee!_

_The Sherriff's men laughed him to scorn_

_But Ethelbert made them to mourn,_

_Fa di la di la la la la la fa di la di lee!"_

"It's a bit merry for the tragedy of the thing, don't you think?"

"Ethelbert strikes me as a bit merry for the tragedy of life," said Djaq. "He just wouldn't fit in a sad tune."

"You are a wise songsmith as well as a surgeon, Lady Djaq," said Will, bowing. "Will he get to fight a dragon in the ballad? Or just a crippled forest outlaw?"

"Oh, probably both. Come along and we'll think up the rest together."

She disappeared back into the shadow of the trees, and Will followed. Together they made their merry way, singing through the Sherwood.

**_The End_**

* * *

**THANK YOU ALL, AND MERRY THANKSGIVINGSMAS!**

**(The Author would like to thank everyone who left a review - your encouragement got me through the whole thing! She would also like to thank the following people for their poetry and music: G.K. Chesterton, Loreena MacKennit, St. John of the Cross, Marc Streitenfeld, Atli Orvarsson, Howard Shore, Kate Rusby, and whichever wonderful Anglo-Saxon bard wrote _The Battle of Maldon._)**


End file.
